《抱朴子內篇》Vol. 7

Someone asked: "The supreme deities of heaven bestow life with inherent fairness—why then did mortals like Qiao Song (a legendary immortal) attain the longevity of undying life, while sages like the Duke of Zhou and Confucius lacked the blessing of long life?"

Ge Hong replied: "The length of a person's lifespan is actually determined by the Qi (vital energy) of the constellations they encounter. At the moment of conception, each person corresponds to a different constellation. The Dao of heaven operates naturally, allowing all things to develop on their own without favoritism or partiality. If one is destined to correspond to a life-affirming constellation, they will inevitably be drawn to the Dao of immortality and succeed in its pursuit. But if one is fated to align with a death-associated constellation, they will neither believe in nor actively cultivate the Dao. Human inclinations—whether good or bad—are rooted in innate endowment, and these differences cannot be arbitrarily altered by heaven. It is like metal smelted in a furnace or pottery fired in a kiln: though both are shaped by the same hearth, the sharpness of bronze and iron or the symmetry of ceramics depends entirely on the material itself, not the furnace."

Another countered: "The finest craftsmen produce their works with their own hands. If heaven is so divine, what could possibly be beyond its power? To claim that human life is predetermined and not fashioned by heaven—this argument is deeply perplexing, and I cannot accept it."

Ge Hong explained: "When the primal chaos first divided, the clear and turbid Qi separated—some ascended in motion, others descended in stillness. Even heaven and earth themselves do not know why this happened. All things come into being through the transformations of Qi, and this occurs spontaneously. All beings, like heaven and earth, exist independently; they merely differ in their time of formation and the scale of their forms. Because heaven and earth are vast, all things appear small; because all things are small, heaven and earth seem immense. Consider how the human torso envelops the five organs, yet those organs are not created by the torso. The skin may encase blood and Qi, but that Qi is not produced by the skin. Though heaven and earth contain all things, those things are not deliberately fashioned by them. It is like plants thriving in mountain forests—the hills do nothing to make it so—or fish and turtles multiplying in lakes—the waters do not act with intent. Ordinary people, seeing the vastness of heaven and earth and the smallness of all things, declare heaven and earth the parents of creation and all things their descendants. But when lice breed on a person’s body, does that mean the person created them? Surely not. Thus, even lice are not of human making."

This passage explores the relationship between humans and Heaven-Earth (天地), as well as between parents and children, questioning whether destiny is determined by external forces.

The author begins with natural examples illustrating spontaneous growth: lice aren't created by humans, nor are the tiny worms in vinegar, the lingzhi mushrooms on rocks, the beetles in mud, or the vines on pine branches—none of these are deliberately manufactured. All beings between Heaven and Earth grow spontaneously, and humans are no exception. Just as Heaven follows its patterns of sun-moon cycles and seasonal changes, humans possess innate capacities like vision and breathing—these are all natural phenomena.

The text then observes that humans cannot fully control their physical conditions: we cannot maintain perfect hearing and vision forever, nor perpetual Qi-blood harmony. Similarly, Heaven cannot guarantee that eclipses never occur or that the four seasons never deviate. Therefore, neither lifespan nor the possibility of attaining immortality (成仙) are determined by Heaven-Earth.

Regarding parent-child relationships, the author notes that while parents give us physical form, they cannot ensure their offspring will be handsome, even-tempered, or exceptionally wise. The physical and mental traits we actually inherit often differ from expectations—how much more so with Heaven-Earth's vast influence, which operates even more indirectly than parental effects. If we cannot maintain perpetual physical vigor or emotional stability in ourselves, how could we expect Heaven-Earth to control everything?

Finally, the text refutes the notion that "Heaven-Earth creates all things": if this were true, all things should be flawless—no failures or defects would exist, all lives would fulfill their desires, and trees wouldn't wither in spring. Reality proves otherwise. Just as Heaven couldn't make Confucius or Mencius immortal, each person's innate endowment forms spontaneously rather than being deliberately allocated. The sage's noble virtues result from their own cultivation; if Heaven could bestow perfect virtue, sages' achievements should be greater and their status higher.

[Note: "荣卫" (Rong-Wei) refers to the Qi-blood circulating in meridians in Chinese medicine; "度世" means transcending mundanity to achieve immortality; "祚" denotes blessings and lifespan.]

This passage presents Ge Hong's discourse on the relationship between Confucianism and Daoism from his Inner Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi Neipian). He argues that human lifespan isn't predetermined by heaven, nor are the lives of sages governed by celestial will. History records virtuous sages who died young (like Boniu and Zixia) alongside wicked long-lived tyrants (such as Robber Zhi and Zhuang Qiao), demonstrating heaven's Dao follows natural Wuwei (non-action).

Ge Hong identifies Confucius (Zhongni) as the Confucian sage and Laozi (Lao Dan) as the realized Daoist sage. Confucianism's accessibility explains its multitude of followers, while Daoism's profundity accounts for its few true comprehenders. Daoism represents the root of all things, Confucianism its substantial tributary. The Three Sovereigns ruled through Daoist principles, while later emperors governed via Confucian teachings.

He criticizes contemporaries for honoring Confucius while neglecting Laozi—comparing this to treasuring pearls while scorning the deep pools that produce them, or cherishing the He Shi jade while despising the Jing Mountain that yields it. Longevity techniques merely represent Daoism's branches, just as ritual-music education forms Confucianism's periphery. Confucianism earns respect for transforming customs; Daoism commands reverence for accomplishing transformation without words.

Significantly, Ge Hong highlights Confucius's genuine reverence for Laozi—having sought counsel from Lao Dan (Boyang) and likened himself to Lao-Peng (Laozi and Peng Zu). Confucius's comparison of Laozi to a dragon wasn't mere courtesy. When Yan Hui described Confucius as "looming ahead yet suddenly behind," this resembled people's veneration for Laozi. Regarding why Confucius didn't study Daoism under Laozi, Ge Hong attributes this to their differing innate missions.

This passage reveals that human nature is inherently formed and fundamentally immutable. Though Confucius recognized the profound transcendence of Laozi's (founder of Daoism) teachings, he failed to grasp the essence of the Dao's purity and emptiness. Laozi's philosophy transcends form and traces directly to the ultimate truth of the Great Dao, while Confucius inquired only about worldly affairs—how could he possibly seek the methods of immortality cultivation? Upon reflection, Confucius' aspirations lay entirely in educating society, with no concern for esoteric practices.

Though Confucius mastered worldly knowledge, he could not achieve the Daoist ideal of serene Wuwei (non-action). Therefore, Laozi admonished him: "A skilled merchant keeps his treasures hidden, while a nobleman of great De (Virtue) appears simple-minded. You must rid yourself of arrogance, desires, artificial demeanor, and unrealistic ambitions—all these harm you." Thus we see Confucius ultimately remained bound by worldly sentiments, unfit for the path of transcendence. He busied himself constantly trying to rectify governance, lamenting "the phoenix does not come" or "the gourd hangs useless," much like merchants worrying over unsold goods or scholars craving achievement—how could such a man abandon worldly service for what seemed the impractical path of longevity?

Someone asked: "Which is more difficult—Confucianism or Daoism?" Baopuzi replied: "Confucianism appears easy but contains hidden difficulties; Daoism seems hard yet holds concealed ease." The difficulty of Daoism lies in severing social ties, abandoning family, relinquishing fame, disregarding wealth, turning blind eyes to splendor and deaf ears to music, content with quiet retirement. It requires solitary self-cultivation—unmoved by slander or praise, free from greed toward riches or shame in poverty.

Yet Daoism's ease manifests in: avoiding social rituals of celebration or mourning, bearing no familial responsibilities, studying neither the Confucian Seven Classics nor calendrical calculations, neither exhausting oneself with celestial observations nor binding oneself to literary arts. Freed from these burdens, one naturally attunes Qi (vital energy) and blood, practicing Wuwei without anxiety—this is what Daoism calls "ease within difficulty."

Confucianism's apparent ease comes from its established norms—every doctrine has standards, every action follows rules, silence and speech both observe propriety. Teachers are everywhere available, texts understandable through commentary. Its hidden difficulty lies in mastering classics, comprehending esoteric works like the River Chart and Luo Writings, surveying all philosophical schools, accumulating virtue among commoners while serving rulers with utmost loyalty. One must observe celestial phenomena while contemplating worldly affairs—no detail may be overlooked.

Understanding the Dao yet failing to align one's actions with it, speaking words that don't correspond with truth—this leads to losing the proper standards for evaluating things. When every gesture becomes imitated by the world and every utterance gets celebrated throughout the land, we see the difficulty of Confucian teachings: seemingly simple yet profoundly challenging. In contrast, Daoist teachings are straightforward and easy to grasp. It was precisely my concern about Confucianism's difficulties that led me to abandon it for the simpler path of Daoism.

Nowadays, those who mock me are everywhere, but I've yet to meet anyone who truly understands me. If kindred spirits must appear in the future, I wouldn't call such an occurrence rare. Some say: "I've encountered many renowned sages and erudite Confucians—they all investigate the nature of things and study the principles of existence and non-existence, yet none have ever claimed that longevity can be extended or immortality attained. Your insight doesn't surpass the brightness of sun and moon, your thoughts don't exceed ordinary men's, yet you declare mastery of the way to eternal life—this is truly hard to believe."

I, Ge Hong (the Master Who Embraces Simplicity), reply: I'm but an ordinary man of meager talent and shallow learning—how dare I boast of insights surpassing others or claim superiority over the world? I merely use visible phenomena to probe hidden principles, addressing complexity through simplicity. By verifying small signs, we can know great effects; by observing what has already manifested, we understand what remains untested. Moreover, those who disbelieve in immortals often refuse to investigate. Though they may possess talent for worldly affairs, master skills for wielding power, have read many classics and texts supporting moral education, can judge superficial human sentiments, and discern ordinary people's confusions, they presume themselves capable of resolving all doubts and foreseeing undisclosed omens. Believing they've exhausted all knowledge of creation and penetrated even the most obscure matters, they conclude immortals don't exist—such obstinacy has deep roots.

I've often witnessed vulgar Confucians clinging stubbornly to preconceptions, rejecting ultimate truths. Their flaw lies in having petty cleverness yet being like hemiplegics—rigid in perspective, entangled in trivialities. They're like those peering at the sky through a bamboo tube yet claiming broad vision, or blaming the well for having no water when their rope was too short. When ordinary people hear the sound of raging wind and blazing fire...

This passage discusses the limitations of human understanding and why the Dao of immortality remains difficult for most people to accept.

People often make these mistakes: hearing winter thunder they assume celestial anomalies, seeing clouds drift west they believe the moon moves east. Even when corrected, they cling to their views. We overtrust our senses—believing whatever our ears hear or eyes see. But sometimes even sensory perceptions deceive, let alone formless, silent truths requiring heart-mind realization. Many dismiss immortal matters as falsehoods simply because they can't comprehend them—isn't this utterly absurd?

Ge Hong (Baopuzi) observes: Beauty and ugliness have objective standards, yet preferences vary, so people judge the same thing differently; refined and vulgar music differ fundamentally, yet tastes vary, so listeners perceive the same melody differently; truth and falsehood have substance, yet choices differ, so people assess the same principle differently. Some mistake ugliness for beauty, turbidity for clarity, loss for gain—these discrepancies remain obvious yet irreconcilable. If even mundane matters defy consensus, how much more so the mysterious Dao of immortality? Expecting universal belief is impossible. Waiting for worldly people to cease idle talk would take longer than waiting for the Yellow River to run clear.

Ge Hong continues: The profoundest truths resist explanation—immortal matters meeting disbelief is an eternal phenomenon. The highest individuals awaken spontaneously, middling ones require guidance, while scoffers abound in this world. My writing will likely invite criticism, just as the blazing sun cannot revive dead wood, nor divine power alter deluded natures. Like Zigong (Confucius' disciple) failing to please fame-chasers, or Gugong Danfu (King Wen's grandfather) unable to persuade land-coveting Rongdi tribes—some truths resist comprehension, some wisdom finds no audience. It's like trying to sell ceremonial caps (zhangfu) in barbarian Yue or crimson ritual slippers (chixi) in...

This passage employs vivid metaphors to illustrate that recognizing truth requires discerning vision. Just as barefoot people have no need for shoes (where "xi" means footwear and "xianyi" refers to those who go barefoot), we cannot force them to understand the purpose of shoes. Some see precious jade yet call it ordinary stone—this doesn't mean the jade isn't genuine, but that it awaits someone like Master Bian He (the legendary jade connoisseur of the Spring and Autumn period) to recognize its worth. Others see a dragon yet mistake it for a snake—this doesn't mean the dragon lacks wonder, but that it requires an expert like Cai Mo (the naturalist of that era) to discern its true nature.

The truly valuable Dao (the Way, core Taoist concept denoting cosmic origin and natural order) lies in its immutable completeness—neither to be increased nor diminished. The truly valuable De (Virtue/Power, the manifestation and cultivation of Dao) manifests when one remains unperturbed by slander and unmoved by praise. Nowadays, people firmly believe immortals don't exist, while I'm certain of their existence and engage in debates—yet the longer we argue, the more entrenched their opposition becomes. Such disputes only breed contention without resolution. Must we ultimately adopt wiser approaches, like unraveling interlocked rings (where "lianhuan zhi yi" symbolizes intricate, seemingly unsolvable problems), to transcend this impasse?