《抱朴子內篇》Vol. 14

The fourteenth chapter "Diligent Seeking" in the Inner Chapters of Baopuzi states: The greatest virtue (De) of heaven and earth is to nurture life and cherish all beings. Therefore, what Daoism values most and guards most closely are the methods of attaining immortality. When transmitting these methods, one must swear a blood oath (the most solemn ritual of commitment in ancient times). If they are revealed to the unworthy, divine punishment will follow. Thus, past masters never transmitted them lightly—only to seekers of utmost sincerity, rigorously tested, with the most devoted hearts deemed worthy. How much less, then, should these precious teachings be carelessly disclosed to those with no genuine interest or wavering commitment to the Dao?

Some are fated to have no connection with the path of immortality. Even if they saw immortals walking the earth daily, they would dismiss them as freaks of nature, demonic illusions, or mere coincidences, never believing such attainments came through cultivation. If the heart refuses to believe, even if immortals like Chisongzi or Wangziqiao (two renowned xian) grabbed their ears to explain, they would deem it demonic deception. Of course, some in the world do understand and believe, yet their flaw lies in failing to diligently seek true teachers. Those who genuinely grasp the essential methods and possess the authentic transmission are exceedingly rare—not casually encountered. Yet though few, such masters have never vanished from the world. With sincere, persistent seeking and unwavering faith, those destined for the path will eventually meet them.

The world teems with greedy fraudsters posing as Daoists, their numbers beyond counting. These charlatans are not entirely ignorant—they dabble in superficial knowledge, boastfully inflate their reputations, and embellish their acts with exorcism tricks. Eager but undiscerning seekers often approach them voluntarily, only to be deceived. These false masters further restrict disciples from seeking true adepts elsewhere, claiming, "All the Dao’s methods are here already." Countless earnest aspirants have been misled this way—a tragedy that stirs grief and outrage. When rumors spread of someone mastering techniques like "dissolving the five clouds, flying the eight minerals, transforming the nine elixirs" (terms for crafting immortality pills), or the art of creating gold and silver, crystallizing frost and snow in divine furnaces, or gathering lingzhi on Mount Song, many scoff: "Only Chisongzi and Wangziqiao knew such arts—how could anyone today understand them?"

Those with limited vision often fail to discern the falsehood and deception in such words, easily abandoning their pursuit of longevity—truly lamentable. Time flies like a tempest; in the blink of an eye, youth turns to old age with indescribable swiftness. A human lifespan of a hundred years amounts to barely thirty thousand days. Childhood is spent in ignorance, while old age is bereft of joy. Subtract decades of confusion and muddleheadedness, along with the afflictions of illness and worry, and the days one truly enjoys amount to less than half. Even if one lives to a hundred, the years of peace and happiness number no more than fifty or sixty—gone in an instant. Moreover, those who reach a full century are rarer than one in ten thousand. Upon reflection, we have no right to mock the summer insects that perish at dusk or the morning mushrooms that fade by evening, for those who fail to grasp this truth are truly pitiable.

There’s a saying among the people: "Each day a person lives, they are one day closer to death, like oxen and sheep being led to the slaughterhouse—every step brings them nearer to their end." Though harsh, this analogy speaks the truth. The wise do not grieve over death, not because they do not wish to live, but because they genuinely know no way to avoid it. Anxiety is futile, so they advocate contentment with fate. The Duke of Zhou (brother of King Wu of Zhou) once pleaded to die in his brother’s stead, and Confucius (styled Zhongni) leaned on his staff in old age, sighing in sorrow—proof that even sages do not wish to die prematurely.

When ordinary people read Zhuangzi’s (Zhuang Zhou) notion that "life is but a dream," they parrot arguments that life and death are no different. But these are mere sophistries—outwardly feigning transcendence while inwardly incapable of embodying it. Observe those who prattle about life and death: at the first sign of illness, they rush to doctors; faced with danger, they tremble in fear. The vulgar malady of our age lies in failing to revere the true Dao, abandoning the classics while indulging in the doctrines of various philosophers. Anyone who refrains from spouting contrarian platitudes is deemed crude and shallow. These people understand nothing of the essence of Laozi and Zhuangzi’s thought—they merely drift with the tide, drowning in absurdities they cannot escape.

Laozi sought "long life and enduring vision" (chang sheng jiu shi), while Zhuangzi preferred to be a turtle wagging its tail in the mud rather than one caught in a net or an ox draped in sacrificial brocade—even begging the river god for food. From this, it’s clear Zhuangzi could not truly equate life and death either. As for later scholars...

This passage discusses how people often become obsessed with worldly fame and profit while neglecting the vital practice of nurturing life and cultivating the Dao. The author makes a striking contrast: after death, when buried underground, one ultimately becomes nothing more than food for ants, merging with dust—shouldn't this inevitable end fill us with dread? Those who sincerely seek longevity should abandon trivial worldly affairs and devote themselves wholeheartedly to the profound practice of Daoist methods.

As for those who don't believe in the path to longevity—let them be. But even among believers, many cannot concentrate on Dao cultivation because they remain attached to worldly desires. They often try to practice only during leftover moments after handling mundane matters, starting too late to achieve success. Ordinary people exhaust themselves chasing power, profit, and desires, but what meaning do high official positions, piles of gold and silver, or beautiful wives and concubines hold if one cannot even preserve one's life (xing) and vital essence (ming)?

Thus, truly wise individuals (superior scholars, shangshi) prioritize the pursuit of longevity. After attaining the Dao of long life, one gains freedom to choose their path: either ascend as an immortal (xian) or remain in the human realm as an earthly immortal (dixian, terrestrial transcendents in Daoism). Like Pengzu (the legendary immortal who lived eight hundred years) and Laozi, one could live for centuries among humans, enjoying worldly pleasures before gradually ascending—an equally admirable choice. However, such cultivation absolutely requires guidance from an enlightened teacher (mingshi); success is nearly impossible without proper instruction.

The text then cites examples from the Han Dynasty to illustrate the importance of honoring teachers and revering the Dao: Empress Dowager of Emperor Xuan studied the Book of Documents (Shangshu) under Xiahou Sheng, rewarding him with generous gold; Emperor Cheng studied the Analects (Lunyu) with Zhang Yu while crown prince, later ennobling him; Emperor Zhang learned the Classic of Filial Piety (Xiaojing) from Huan Rong and personally performed disciple rites at his teacher's home after ascending the throne. These examples emphasize that even emperors showed such reverence for teachers—how much more must ordinary people seeking longevity rely on enlightened guidance.

These renowned historical figures did not earn reverence through military conquests or territorial expansion. They attained such profound respect simply by mastering a single classic and transmitting its teachings—merely reiterating the words of ancient sages, yet even emperors humbled themselves before them. Some people today seek the Dao of immortality, yet refuse to approach enlightened masters with genuine humility. Arrogantly demanding secret formulas—how could they possibly receive true transmission?

A student's reverent attitude brings no material benefit to the master. Yet without it, the master perceives insincerity; sensing insincerity, the master withholds complete teaching; without full transmission, how can one obtain the complete method? In such cases, the master may reluctantly impart superficial techniques—how could these possibly achieve immortality? Others feign respect while secretly doubting the Dao, motivated only by selfish desires. Their pretense of humility soon gives way to disrespect. A wise master deliberately observes such aspirants over time, withholding transmission to test their sincerity. These hypocrites ultimately fail to receive true teaching, and even if given partial instruction, cannot fully comprehend it. Without complete understanding, their practice is futile.

Chen Anshi was merely thirteen years old, originally a page in Guan Shuben's household. Yet when he attained immortality first, the seventy-year-old Guan Shuben knelt before him daily, saying: "The Dao's law is sacred—he who attains it first becomes the teacher." Maintaining this disciple's devotion unwaveringly, Anshi ultimately transmitted the secret formula to him, and Shuben too achieved immortality. Though humans receive their Shen (spirit) from heaven and earth, and their physical form from parents, without an enlightened master to transmit the way of transcendence, they inevitably face death—like sparks struck from stone, fleeting and transient. Thus we see the enlightened master's kindness truly surpasses heaven and earth, outweighing even parental bonds. How could we not revere them? How could we not seek them?

Ge Hong (Baopuzi) said: The ancients valued substance over words—thus rulers governed without empty rhetoric, and cultivators prized not eloquence but practice. Now customs degenerate, external embellishments grow ever more elaborate, and though texts pile mountain-high, none can read them all.

Confucian scholars accumulated vast collections of texts, while Daoist practitioners also possessed numerous manuals on cultivation techniques. Beginners could not immediately receive the core teachings, as people often pursued superficial abundance. Later adepts like Yu Ji, Rong Song, and Gui Bo each composed many writings, yet most contained only admonitory words, reluctant to explicitly reveal the true essence of the Great Dao (Da Dao). The most essential secrets were either transmitted orally or written on less than a foot of silk, concealed in collars or belts. Only those who followed their masters for years, practiced diligently, and proved themselves worthy could obtain these genuine transmissions.

Masters would impart teachings according to each disciple's varying capacities—their dedication, endurance, wisdom, and willpower. Over millennia, only occasionally would someone receive the secrets hidden beneath a master's pillow or sleeve. Sometimes disciples merely assisted in preparing medicines, receiving portions after completion; though these elixirs could confer immortality, the masters would never write down the formulas before death. Thus among Daoist practitioners in the world, scarcely one in ten thousand truly understood the Great Dao of the Golden Elixir (Jindan).

Those with shallow understanding assumed immortal techniques were recorded in voluminous texts or existed within bowing rituals. Yet the path to longevity fundamentally lay in refining the Great Medicine (Golden Elixir), never determined by sacrifices. The Qin and Han dynasties had lavished worship on deities like Taiyi, the Five Directional Gods, Chenbao, and the Eight Spirits, squandering countless livestock, silks, and treasures—all without effect. How much more absurd for ordinary people, lacking virtue (De) and physical cultivation, to seek life extension from spirits through sacrificial animals and wine!

Others, though interested in cultivation, neglected to diligently seek enlightened masters or refine elixirs. They merely recited irrelevant texts day and night—hundreds or thousands of scrolls—growing old without benefit, then declaring immortality nonexistent. Whole families might bow to empty air, slaughter animals, and burn incense, yet illnesses persisted and deaths followed one after another. Even after bankrupting themselves without results, they remained unenlightened, blaming insufficient piety. Had they devoted such effort to finding true masters and spent their wealth on acquiring medicines and secret transmissions, they surely could have attained immortality and eternal life.

This passage describes several common pitfalls on the path of Daoist cultivation, akin to heading toward Yan when one intends to reach Chu—no matter how fine the steed, the destination remains unreachable. The problem isn't insufficient speed, but fundamentally wrong direction.

Some people are naturally credulous, prone to blind devotion without discernment. With shallow understanding, they encounter self-proclaimed masters boasting "I possess secret Daoist methods" and pledge unwavering allegiance. In truth, many vulgar individuals merely don the empty title of cultivation masters, their reputations exceeding reality. Driven by greed and profit, they deliberately affect an air of profundity. When seekers approach them, these charlatans feign mystery—nodding and shaking their heads—leading disciples to believe their sincerity remains inadequate. Thus the seekers redouble their devotion, offering material goods, even willingly serving as beasts of burden, traversing mountains and rivers in pursuit.

Years pass in vain: parental duties neglected, spouses and children abandoned, hardships endured—yet nothing gained. These so-called "masters" were deceitful from the outset, watching followers bankrupt themselves without remorse. Hollow within, they possess no genuine knowledge to impart.

I've personally witnessed dozens such imposters—some claiming centuries of age, constantly changing names to pose as sages while swindling their way through society. Ordinary people, unable to distinguish truth from falsehood, amplify their fame, perpetuating this corruption. Once these frauds establish reputations through deception, their followings swell. Even genuine masters may occasionally be deceived—a truly lamentable situation. Each encounter with such charlatans stirs profound reflection.

This passage cautions about the importance of carefully selecting a Daoist master and not being misled by empty reputations. Those who chase fame and profit, whether swiftly or slowly, will ultimately meet misfortune. Though the Dao of Heaven may seem lenient, it never fails to account for wrongdoing. Only those genuinely committed to cultivating the Dao will comprehend this truth.

Most people in the world pursue hollow fame and superficial glamour, rarely able to distinguish the genuine from the false. When they hear that a certain Daoist priest (referred to as "A" or "B") has hundreds of disciples, they assume he must possess extraordinary abilities and rush to seek him out. Yet these gathered followers often hinder each other’s cultivation, blindly revering masters who are actually ignorant and shallow. They no longer seek the true, profound teachings of the Dao, relying instead on gathering disciples to amass wealth. After years of such pursuit, they still fail to attain the Dao. The ignorant fail to realize that these masters are unworthy of following—truly a lamentable state!

It is like searching for towering trees in a pile of dirt no higher than ten feet, or seeking fish large enough to swallow boats in puddles left by oxen hooves—no matter how much time is spent, they will never be found. Future seekers of the Dao, though it is important to study under a master, one must not rush into choosing without discernment. Those with shallow insight, meager virtue (De), and feeble cultivation, who have not even attained the Dao themselves—how can they guide others? They are utterly incapable of repaying the sincere devotion of their disciples. Reflect deeply on this truth, lest effort be wasted in vain.

Those Daoists with empty reputations are skilled in deceit, tricking seekers while concealing their own shortcomings. Though ignorant, they pretend to vast learning, never willing to consult those more accomplished than themselves. Stagnation is bad enough, but worse still, they envy those who truly embody the Dao, slandering them out of fear that others’ reputations might surpass their own. How could such people genuinely pursue the path of immortality? Their mass recruitment of disciples is merely a means to amass wealth and indulge in pleasures. Little do they know that Heaven observes all with perfect clarity, and retribution will surely come in time.

The poor should not falsely claim wealth, nor the lowly pretend to nobility—how much more so in the matter of cultivating the Dao, which demands real substance? How can one rely on empty displays of discipleship to embellish appearances? Ordinary people should not harbor jealousy, and Daoist practitioners should establish themselves in loyalty and sincerity. Why allow such petty thoughts to fester in the heart? Though humans cannot see the divine, the gods observe mortals with ease—just as one might struggle to see through a curtain from within, while those outside can clearly see inside.

This passage criticizes the hypocrisy of certain contemporary Daoist practitioners who feign spiritual cultivation while actually pursuing fame and profit, completely contradicting the true spirit of Daoist practice.

Some act arrogantly and discourteously in private, believing no one sees them—like the foolish thief who covers his own ears while stealing a bell, deafened by its ringing. These individuals inwardly crave exclusive prestige and flocks of disciples, outwardly chasing reputation while inwardly hoarding wealth. They envy those superior to them, competing for power and profit more fiercely than worldly people. Wielding words like swords, they form factions by slandering others, appearing close while keeping distance, feigning shared ideals while concealing malice. Such behavior is detested by Heaven, Earth, and humanity alike—a sure path to calamity.

Even when studying the Confucian Five Classics, one must seek guidance humbly to cultivate virtue. How much more so for basic skills like archery and charioteering, rudimentary knowledge like writing and arithmetic, everyday tasks like farming and sericulture, or fundamental disciplines like rituals and etiquette—all require a teacher’s instruction to grasp their essence. How then can the pursuit of immortality and longevity, the Daoist path of cultivation, be any different? It is no less than saving lives—how can one cling to pride and refuse to seek guidance, persisting in ignorance until old age and death without repentance? Such people are utterly foolish, a disgrace to behold.

True Confucian scholars understand the value of simplicity, appearing humble, feigning ignorance despite knowledge, seeming empty despite fullness, never courting praise from the vulgar. Why then do some Daoists pretend to know what they do not, claim what they lack, and inflate their image for selfish gain? Those who persist in delusion are more pitiable than those who knowingly err. If any such person reads this, may they repent while there is still time. These words are not spoken idly—they arise from necessity, like the instinct to save a child from falling into a well.

If anyone awakens upon reading this, it is as though they have received an elixir of immortality. Why say more? Bitter medicine saves lives—the danger here needs no diagnosis. Just as one would spare no effort or kind words to rescue someone condemned to death, for such a deed brings immense merit. But today, those impostors among the Daoists...

This passage is from Baopuzi Neipian (Inner Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity), where Ge Hong discusses the essence of attaining longevity through Daoist cultivation. He explicitly states that without mastering the methods of the Golden Elixir (Jindan) path, true immortality cannot be achieved. Even if some possess abilities to heal diseases, revive the dead, fast for years without hunger, command spirits, teleport, foresee fortunes with clairvoyance—these supernatural powers offer no substantial aid in prolonging life.

Ge Hong criticizes those unwilling to humbly seek guidance: to protect their vanity, they feel ashamed to learn from masters, preferring prolonged suffering over temporary humility. He employs a vivid analogy: this is like someone choosing to burn in a wildfire rather than flee—a folly all would mock. Similarly, while immortality could be attained by studying under a master, refusing due to fear of hardship is true foolishness.

The text emphasizes the preciousness of life: neither imperial power nor worldly wealth can purchase the methods of longevity. As the ancients said, "A dead emperor is inferior to a living rat," for both governing the world and self-cultivation require correct methods to succeed. Ge Hong laments that people delay seeking immortality only because they don’t know when death will come. If aware of impending death, they would endure torture to extend life—let alone something as simple as humbly learning from a master.

Finally, Ge Hong explains his purpose in writing: while past Daoist texts often indulged in empty abstractions, he concretely outlines practical methods for longevity and common pitfalls, like guiding the lost. Quoting the adage "eclipses of the sun and moon," he notes that all err, but the key is to correct mistakes. This passage reflects Daoism’s emphasis on practice and the pursuit of immortality, as well as Ge Hong’s pragmatic demands for cultivators.

This passage records Ge Hong (Daoist name Baopuzi) expounding on the fundamental principles of Daoist cultivation and life nourishment. He compares himself to the ancient sage Yan Hui (the disciple of Confucius), wishing to illuminate the correct path for future seekers of longevity, thus offering unreserved advice without ornate rhetoric. Every sentence he writes strikes at the heart of the matter with sincere words, aiming to help people truly comprehend the Dao of longevity while refuting erroneous beliefs.

Ge Hong particularly emphasizes: many who study life-nourishing cultivation fail to achieve anything because they never find a genuine enlightened master. This leads later aspiring cultivators, seeing their predecessors' failures, to mistakenly believe no genuine methods for attaining immortality exist. In truth, those unwilling to discipline themselves rigorously or endure hardships in practicing the profound Daoist methods not only forfeit worldly success (career advancement) but also fail to attain life-extending benefits (the achievement of delayed aging). They harm themselves while misleading future generations.

He offers a vivid analogy: attaining immortality can be learned, just as millet and grain can be clearly sown and harvested. But no one ever reaps good crops without tilling the fields—likewise, without diligent practice, one cannot possibly attain the abilities of longevity and transcendence from worldly existence. Here "transcending the mundane world" (度世) refers to achieving a state beyond ordinary existence through cultivation.