《抱朴子內篇》Vol. 2

Someone asked Ge Hong (the Baopuzi): "Do matters of divine immortality and eternal life truly exist?" Ge Hong replied: "Even those with the sharpest eyes cannot perceive all that has form; even those with the keenest ears cannot hear every sound. Though one might possess the miraculous feet of Great Zhang or Shu Hai (legendary swift walkers), the paths trodden would still be far fewer than those untraveled. Even with the wisdom of Yu the Great, Boyi, or Qi Xie (ancient sages), what is known remains vastly outnumbered by the unknown. The myriad things of this world are complex beyond measure—what could possibly be deemed impossible? Moreover, with so many records of immortals in the classical texts, how could the path to longevity not exist?"

The questioner laughed heartily and said: "Where there is a beginning, there must be an end; where there is life, there must be death. Even sage-kings like the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, Confucius (Qiu), and the Duke of Zhou (Dan); wise men like Bian Que, Zhang Liang, and Chen Ping; eloquent debaters like Duanmu Ci, Sui He, and Li Yiji; or mighty warriors like Meng Ben, Xia Yu, and the Five Ding (legendary strongmen)—all ultimately met their demise. This is the constant pattern of human life, an inevitable principle. We've seen plants wither before frost arrives, wilt at summer's peak, form ears without sprouting, or perish before ripening—but never a person living ten thousand years without death. Thus the ancients pursued learning without seeking immortality, spoke without invoking supernatural absurdities, rejected heretical doctrines, and abided by natural laws. They regarded the longevity of tortoises and cranes as exceptions, viewing life and death as commonplace as day and night. Rather than tormenting oneself with futile disciplines—as fruitless as carving ice or rotten wood—wouldn't it be better to deploy strategies that benefit the world, achieve meritorious deeds in one's time, don the purple and blue robes of high office, ride in chariots drawn by black stallions, let ornate carriages replace walking, and feast from tripods instead of toiling with farm tools? Recalling the Book of Songs' satires against impractical pursuits and Confucius' teachings on universal mortality, why chase the formless wind, grasp at elusive shadows, pursue the unattainable, or tread impassable roads? To forsake present glory for self-inflicted hardship, abandoning the easy for the impossibly difficult, is like a madman chasing illusions—ending with neither. Partial beliefs invite calamities within and without. Just as Lu Ban and Di Ya (master craftsmen) couldn't grind tiles into needles, or Ou Yezi (legendary swordsmith) forge the Ganjiang sword from lead and tin—what even spirits cannot accomplish, Heaven and Earth cannot achieve."

This passage records a dialogue between Ge Hong (Daoist name Baopuzi) and a skeptic discussing the possibility of immortality. The skeptic argues that attempting to prolong human life is as absurd as expecting summer cicadas to live a full year or morning-glory fungi to accumulate years of existence.

Ge Hong responds: Deaf people cannot hear thunder, nor can the blind see the sun, moon, or stars. But does this mean thunder lacks volume or starlight lacks brilliance? Similarly, just because deaf ears miss the harmony of zithers and blind eyes cannot admire dragon-embroidered robes, can we thereby deny these beautiful things exist? Those stubborn in their views won't even believe in sages like the Duke of Zhou or Confucius—how could they possibly accept the Dao of immortals?

He further illustrates with natural phenomena: Summer should be hot, yet cool days occur; winter should be cold, yet sudden warm spells appear. Rivers generally flow eastward, yet mighty currents run north; the earth should remain still, yet earthquakes happen. Scorching springs exist in icy depths, and cold flames (Xiaoqiu's chill fire) burn without heat within what should be fire. Heavy stones float in the South Sea while light feathers sink in the Zangke River. The myriad things of this world display infinite variety—they cannot be uniformly judged.

Finally, he observes: Humans are the most spiritual of creatures, yet each person's intelligence, temperament, preferences, and choices differ profoundly. Some are born wise while others foolish; some kindhearted while others wicked; some long-lived while others short-lived—these disparities have existed since antiquity. Therefore, one should not deny the possibility of immortal longevity simply because one hasn't witnessed it or cannot comprehend it.

This passage explores why ordinary people struggle to comprehend the existence and nature of immortals (xian). Ge Hong employs analogies from natural metamorphoses: pheasants transforming into giant clams, sparrows becoming oysters, soil-dwelling insects growing wings, frogs by the water taking flight, water fleas turning into beetles, field mice becoming quails, rotten grass producing fireflies, alligators morphing into tigers, and snakes evolving into flood dragons. If such transformations are possible, why should one doubt the extraordinary longevity of immortals?

He then cites even more astonishing cases of transformation: a man (Niu Ai) becoming a tiger, an old Chu woman turning into a giant turtle, a person named Zhili transforming into a willow tree, a Qin woman's corpse petrifying only to revive later, and even instances of gender metamorphosis. Pengzu lived eight hundred years while some children perish in infancy—how can such disparities be explained? Given the myriad possibilities of transformation in the world, why should it be impossible for immortals to preserve their health through elixirs, prolong life through esoteric arts, remain untouched by internal or external ailments, and maintain youthful appearances indefinitely?

Yet worldly people remain confined by commonplace experiences, dismissing immortals simply because they've never seen them. Ge Hong sharply observes: humans judge profound mysteries through their limited sensory perceptions, like supporting the sky yet remaining ignorant of its height, treading the earth without knowing its depth. They fail to understand even the mysteries of their own bodies—how much less can they grasp the transcendent principles of immortal Dao (xian dao)?

True immortals pursue values diametrically opposed to worldly norms: they regard wealth as misfortune, honor as filth, treasures as dust, and fame as morning dew. They can walk through flames unharmed, tread dark waves as if on solid ground, spread wings to ride pure winds, or steer cloud-chariots straight to the Purple Tenuity Palace (Ziwei, celestial emperor's abode), while dwelling below on the sacred Kunlun Mountains. How could such transcendent existence be judged by ordinary people shackled by narrow experience?

How could those who cultivate immortality easily reveal their true forms? Even when they occasionally wander the mortal realm, they conceal their identities, appearing no different from ordinary people—walking shoulder to shoulder without detection. Only ancient immortals bore distinctive features: like Jiao Jian with his square pupils, Qiong Shu with ears atop his head, Ma Shihuang riding dragons, Prince Qiao astride white cranes, or Fuxi and Nüwa with serpentine bodies beneath human heads, clad in feathered robes and golden chariots—such unmistakable signs made them recognizable. But unless immortals choose to manifest, how could those without divine sight perceive their true forms? How could those without celestial hearing discern their immortal voices?

Worldly people not only disbelieve in immortals but often slander them, making true adepts even more reluctant to appear. What ordinary folk chase—fame and profit—are precisely what the enlightened detest; treasures cherished by mortals are but refuse in the eyes of sages. Even profound scholars avoid shallow company—why then would transcendent beings, free from worldly dust, hasten to reveal themselves to the narrow-minded? Could straw-dog offerings ever comprehend the Dao (the Way)? Some with limited vision can't see beyond a hundred paces yet arrogantly claim "what's unseen doesn't exist"—by that logic, most things under heaven would be deemed nonexistent. This is like measuring the ocean with a finger and declaring it dry when the bottom isn't touched. How could mayflies understand the life of giant sea turtles? How would morning mushrooms grasp the longevity of the sacred chun tree (which counts eight millennia as one spring and autumn)?

Emperor Wei Wendi (Cao Pi) prided himself on vast knowledge, declaring in his Discourses that no blade could cut jade nor cloth withstand fire—until both treasures were presented at court, forcing him to burn his writings in shame. Prince Chen Si (Cao Zhi) confessed in Resolving Doubts: he once dismissed immortality as fraud until witnessing Emperor Wu test the arts of Zuo Ci—fasting for nearly a month while maintaining vigor, claiming fifty years without food posed no hardship. He also saw the alchemist Gan Shi feed medicine to fish before casting them into boiling oil: untreated fish cooked instantly, while medicated ones swam unharmed all day. Silkworms fed his elixir lived ten months without aging; chicks and puppies given longevity drugs....

This passage primarily addresses people's skepticism toward the lore of immortals (xian) and how to properly evaluate ancient records.

Ge Hong (Baopuzi) begins with an analogy: Just as hair stops turning black when one ceases to use hair-darkening medicine, so too is it impossible to know everything under heaven—one cannot draw conclusions based solely on subjective speculation. He laments his own difficulty in completely renouncing sensual pleasures to focus wholeheartedly on cultivating the path of longevity.

He then cites two learned scholars as examples: Initially skeptical of immortal lore, they changed their views only after thorough study in their later years. Ge Hong points out that ordinary people, limited in their understanding, naturally doubt the existence of immortals. He specifically mentions the Han dynasty scholar Liu Xiang, a man of vast learning who compiled the Biographies of Immortals (Liexian Zhuan), recording over seventy immortals. If these were not factual, why would he fabricate them?

Regarding the authenticity of ancient records, Ge Hong argues that we should not dismiss them simply because certain events were not personally witnessed by the Duke of Zhou (a virtuous minister of the Zhou dynasty) or endorsed by Confucius (styled Zhongni). He counters: If even ancient historical records are to be doubted, what then can be trusted? People often project their own fame-seeking mentality onto the ancients, making it hard to understand why ancient recluses—such as Chao Fu, Xu You, Lao Laizi, and Zhuangzi—would reject power and status.

Addressing contemporary doubts about Liu Xiang's accounts, Ge Hong refutes: Just as Confucius compiled the Spring and Autumn Annals based on Lu state's historical records, and Sima Qian (styled Zichang) was praised by Yang Xiong for his "faithful recording," how can Liu Xiang—a renowned Han scholar—be lightly dismissed? The reason people disbelieve in the possibility of cultivating immortality or extending life, he argues, stems mainly from the failures of Qin Shihuang and Emperor Wu of Han in their quests for immortality, as well as the ineffective methods of practitioners like Li Shaojun and Luan Da.

Finally, he uses three analogies to illustrate the fallacy of overgeneralization: One cannot deny the existence of ancient tycoons like Tao Zhugong or Yi Dun simply because of poor men like Qian Lou or Yuan Xian; nor can one deny ancient beauties like Nanwei or Xishi because of unattractive women like Wuyan or Xuliu. The pursuit of Daoist immortality, he concludes, is like farming—some succeed while others fail. We must not dismiss the entire possibility just because some have not succeeded.

This passage explores the inherent contradiction between Daoist cultivation and imperial governance. Ge Hong (Baopuzi) observes that just as farming may yield poor harvests, commerce may incur losses, and warfare may end in defeat, how could something as profoundly difficult as immortal cultivation possibly succeed for everyone? Historical emperors like Qin Shi Huang and Han Wu Di failed in their quests for immortality—some abandoned the path midway, others never encountered true masters—but this doesn't prove immortals don't exist.

The crux of immortal cultivation lies in unwavering determination, not wealth or status. If one's temperament is unsuitable, high rank and privilege become burdens. Cultivation requires purity of heart, minimal desires, and "turning the gaze inward" (a Daoist practice of internal contemplation), maintaining a mind clear as still water. Yet emperors must govern the realm, attending to endless state affairs where even minor missteps affect the nation. Their harmonious Qi (the body's vital energy) is disrupted by fine wines, their primordial essence depleted by sensual pleasures—losses too numerous to detail. Like being unable to sit still from mosquito bites, governing an empire is infinitely more distracting; how could they possibly achieve the stillness required for cultivation?

Emperor Wu of Han, considered long-lived by imperial standards, only grasped the surface of longevity practices. Immortal cultivation demands serenity through Wuwei (non-action) and transcendence of physical form, while emperors must strike grand bells, beat mighty drums, and indulge in entertainments that agitate the spirit. Cultivation requires compassion for all life, yet emperors must execute in anger; it demands abstention from meat, while emperors feast on rare delicacies; it calls for universal love, while imperial rule enforces strict hierarchies. These fundamental contradictions demonstrate why emperors truly struggle to cultivate immortality.

This passage criticizes Qin Shi Huang and Emperor Wu of Han for their superficial pursuit of immortality while being mired in power and indulgence, far removed from genuine cultivation. The text points out how these two emperors exhausted their military might and drained the people's resources—under Qin Shi Huang, nine out of ten households contemplated rebellion, while Emperor Wu's reign left the empire wailing with its population halved. Though they bore the reputation of "immortality seekers," they neither understood profound cultivation methods nor found true Daoist masters to aid in refining elixirs, making their quest for eternal life futile.

Ge Hong then contrasts this with his own humble circumstances: his home as destitute as Sima Xiangru's bare walls, often starving like the famished man of Yisang, shivering through winters like the Rongyi tribesmen, and sweltering in summer like Wang Ruzhong under a leaky roof. Without fine clothes or delicacies, nor the pleasures of music, his life was fraught with hardships. Yet even ordinary people—himself included—struggle to sever attachments to family and worldly life. How much harder then for those two rulers of the realm—surrounded by endless luxuries and countless favorites—to even observe brief purification rituals, let alone relinquish harems and imperial glory to seek immortality in remote mountains? The allusion to "binding grass in gratitude" (a Spring and Autumn period典故) implies that even spirits understand repaying kindness, while tyranny invites wrath from both humans and ghosts.

This passage presents a core argument: those who truly attain the Dao and achieve immortality often come from humble backgrounds rather than positions of power and privilege. Ge Hong illustrates through multiple historical anecdotes how those who pursue wealth and status typically remain estranged from the path to immortality.

The text first observes that since ancient times, most who attained the Dao and became immortals (xian) came from poverty and low status rather than high-ranking positions. Shallow individuals like Luan Da, who resorted to any means for wealth and glory only to meet execution, prove by their fate that they were never true immortals. Authentic cultivators regard noble titles as scorching bronze vessels, official seals as funeral shrouds, gold and silver as dung, and mansions as prisons—never coveting power or status.

Several historical examples follow: King Goujian of Yue's anger over a fly caused soldiers to compete in sacrificing their lives; King Ling of Chu's preference for slender waists led subjects to starve themselves; Duke Huan of Qi's craving for exotic flavors prompted the cook Yi Ya to steam his own child; and the ruler of Song's rewards for emaciation made people mutilate themselves. These cases demonstrate how rulers' preferences shape entire nations. Emperor Wu of Han's excessive trust in fangshi (esoteric practitioners) created opportunities for charlatans like Luan Da.

Particular attention is given to Li Shaojun's story: though possessing an immortality formula, his poverty prevented him from acquiring the necessary herbs, forcing him to temporarily seek wealth before departing after achieving his cultivation. Later, Emperor Wu dreamed of Li being summoned by the supreme deity Taiyi, after which Li reportedly "died of illness." Yet when his coffin was opened, only clothes remained—a classic case of what Daoism terms "corpse-liberation immortality" (shijie xian), where practitioners feign death to shed their mortal forms.

The passage concludes by outlining Daoism's three grades of immortality: celestial immortals (tianxian) ascend in their physical bodies; terrestrial immortals (dixian) roam famous mountains; and corpse-liberation immortals require simulated death before transformation. Beyond Li Shaojun, examples like Húgōng taking Fei Changfang away, or the Daoist Li Yiqi and disciples leaving only bamboo staffs (inscribed with cinnabar talismans) in their coffins, all testify to this liberation method.

(Note: Corpse-liberation refers to a Daoist transcendence technique where practitioners shed their mortal shells through apparent death, akin to a cicada molting. Cinnabar inscriptions denote talismanic writings with special spiritual potency.)

In ancient times, Wang Mang used Confucian classics to conceal his wicked deeds, yet we cannot conclude that all Confucian scholars are usurping thieves. Similarly, Sima Xiangru seduced Zhuo Wenjun with his zither music, but this doesn't mean the essence of refined music is licentiousness. Just as we wouldn’t blame Shennong for teaching agriculture because someone choked on food, or blame Suiren for inventing fire because someone died in flames, or resent the Yellow Emperor for creating boats because a ship capsized, or deny Du Kang’s brewing because of drunken brawls. By the same logic, how can we dismiss the entire path of immortality as false just because of charlatans like Luan Da? It would be like denying the existence of virtuous ministers like Yi Yin, the Duke of Zhou, or Huo Guang because of the wickedness of Zhao Gao or Dong Zhuo, or denying the filial piety of ancient figures like Boqi or Xiaoji because of the cruelty of Shang Chen or Modun.

The Biographies of Immortals (Shenxian Zhuan) records methods for summoning deities, exorcising demons, and even techniques to make ghosts visible. Ordinary people hearing of such things either dismiss them as fabrications, claim ghosts and spirits don’t exist, or admit their existence but insist they cannot be controlled by human means. Some say the ability to see ghosts is innate—men with this gift are called xi (male shamans), women wu (female shamans)—and cannot be learned. Yet the Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji) and Book of Han (Hanshu) clearly document cases like Shao Weng of Qi, whom Emperor Wu of Han enfeoffed as General Wencheng. After Emperor Wu’s beloved Consort Li died, Shao Weng made her appear as if alive and even revealed the Kitchen God to the emperor. If such arts can manifest spirits and grant sight to those who couldn’t see them, what else might be possible?

Ghosts and spirits frequently manifest as strange lights and shadows among the people, and classical texts abound with evidence of their existence. If ordinary folk don’t even believe in ghosts, how much harder is it for them to accept the existence of immortals dwelling in distant celestial realms, whose pure and turbid Qi differs from mortals? These beings ascend far beyond the human world, never to return—how could anyone witness them without attaining the Dao? Confucians and Mohists, knowing these phenomena defy ordinary logic, simply avoid the subject. Common skepticism is understandable. Only those with true insight, after thorough verification, can confirm these realities—but such understanding is personal and cannot be forced upon others. Thus, never having seen ghosts or immortals doesn’t prove their nonexistence.

Everyone knows their body houses hun and po (ethereal and corporeal souls). When these souls scatter, illness follows; when they depart entirely, death comes. Thus, when the souls partially disperse, esoteric arts...

This passage comes from Ge Hong's Inner Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi Neipian), discussing the limitations of human understanding regarding spirits and immortality. The author argues that just as people cannot deny the existence of spirits and deities simply because they have never seen them, neither should they dismiss the rarity of immortality and Daoist cultivation as mere fiction.

The text cites numerous accounts from classical texts documenting supernatural phenomena—such as the vengeful ghost of Fushi, the divine wrath of King Cheng Tang, and the conversations between Prince Shen Sheng and fox spirits—demonstrating that historical records are replete with well-documented encounters with the unseen. Yet some stubbornly refuse to believe in spirits, let alone the even rarer possibility of immortality. Convincing such skeptics of the reality of Daoist cultivation is as futile as asking a mosquito to carry a mountain or discussing the ocean with a frog at the bottom of a well.

The author criticizes those who dismiss Liu Xiang’s Biographies of Immortals (Liexian Zhuan) simply because Liu failed in his alchemical experiments. This, he argues, is like discarding a luminous pearl for a minor flaw or destroying a priceless sword over a blemish no larger than an ant’s nose. The methods for refining the Golden Elixir (Jindan), he explains, are recorded in the scriptures of the immortals. Liu An, the Prince of Huainan, once transcribed these secret techniques into his Pillow Book of the Vast Treasure (Hongbao Zhenzhong Shu), but the crucial details required oral transmission and could not be fully grasped through text alone. Liu Xiang merely obtained these texts by chance while his father was overseeing the legal case against Liu An; he lacked proper instruction in the Daoist arts and mistakenly assumed the written words alone were sufficient, leading to his failure. As for Biographies of Immortals, it was an edited compilation from the works of Qin official Ruan Cang—its value should not be dismissed simply because Liu Xiang’s alchemy failed.

Through this example, Ge Hong illustrates that the failures or limited understanding of certain practitioners should not invalidate the entire path of Daoist cultivation. He emphasizes that true mastery requires direct transmission from a teacher and cannot be achieved through book learning alone.

This passage discusses how people often doubt truth due to limited understanding. Ge Hong (Baopuzi) states that everything he recorded was either witnessed personally or obtained from reliable sources—not mere hearsay. Just as ancient sages would consider children's folk rhymes and woodcutters' advice, one shouldn't dismiss classical teachings entirely because of minor inaccuracies. Would anyone claim the sun and moon don't shine simply because eclipses occur?

He cites several examples contemporaries found unbelievable: foreign-made crystal bowls were actually synthesized from five kinds of ash (similar to glassmaking techniques), a technology already mastered by craftsmen in Jiaozhou and Guangzhou. Yet ordinary people stubbornly refused to believe it, insisting crystal was natural jade. Similarly, they denied that yellow lead (lead oxide) and foreign powder (lead carbonate) were smelted from lead, or that mules resulted from donkey-horse crossbreeding, clinging instead to the notion that all things possess fixed, innate categories.

Ge Hong laments: The less knowledge people possess, the more marvels they perceive—this is the way of the world. Even when truth shines as clearly as the sky, those confined beneath an upturned pot (metaphor for cognitive limitations) cannot comprehend profound principles. This passage reveals how cognitive constraints universally lead people to reject new knowledge.