《抱朴子內篇》Vol. 8

Someone asked: There are many paths in life, but attaining immortality is the most difficult. If one does not abandon worldly affairs, how can one focus on cultivating immortality? If one devotes oneself to literary pursuits, the joys and sorrows of life, or the duties of ruler and subject, how can these replace the pursuit of immortality?

Ge Hong (Baopuzi) replied: The essentials of cultivating immortality are not complicated, and what needs to be done is minimal. The only fear is lacking firm resolve and sincere faith—why worry about neglecting worldly affairs? Those of true ability can cultivate both internally and externally: inwardly nurturing the Dao of longevity, outwardly harmonizing with the world (referring to blending seamlessly with secular society). This way, one can both cultivate the body and attain longevity while also governing the state and achieving peace. Use the Confucian Six Classics to educate ordinary scholars, and impart the methods of the immortal path to those with the right affinity. Those who wish to remain in the world for a time can assist in governance, while those who aspire to ascend can soar straight to the heavens—this is the way of the highest adepts.

If one feels their ability is insufficient to manage both, they may also relinquish worldly wisdom to focus solely on cultivating the Dao—this is the second-best option. In ancient times, the Yellow Emperor bore the heavy responsibility of governing the world, yet this did not prevent him from ascending to immortality astride a dragon at Dinghu; Pengzu (a legendary immortal who lived 800 years) served as a grand official for eight centuries before departing westward to the shifting sands; Laozi (Boyang) once held the position of Archivist, Ning Fengzi served as a pottery official, Fang Hui was a village scholar, and Jiang Taigong (Lü Wang) rose to the rank of Grand Tutor. These ancient sages were all able to attain the Dao while also rectifying worldly affairs, proving that one can cultivate the Dao with ample ease while serving in government—why must one abandon all worldly duties to become an immortal?

There are also those whose nature delights in stillness and detests clamor, who find joy in unrestrained freedom and see glory and high office as burdens. They wear coarse garments and straw sandals, eat wild vegetables, hold farming tools, and find contentment in poverty, awaiting the end of their allotted lifespan. They do not cling to life nor fear an early death, declining offers of a thousand pieces of gold and disdaining the honors of ministers and chancellors. Even if such people knew nothing of the immortal path, they would still live this way—how much more so if they understood the methods of longevity? They would never be weighed down by worldly concerns.

Ge Hong concluded: People often say that a single good word is worth a thousand pieces of gold, but such words usually pertain only to military or state affairs or personal conduct. As for imparting the secrets of immortality or bestowing the elixir of eternal life—how can their value be compared to ordinary good advice? The path of cultivating the Dao allows for different choices; it cannot be reduced to a single approach.

(Note: The phrase "harmonizing with the world" (和光同尘) reflects Daoist wisdom in navigating life, where adepts conceal their brilliance and blend with secular society; the "Six Classics" refer to Confucian canonical texts; "methods" (方术) denote Daoist cultivation techniques; figures like the Yellow Emperor, Pengzu, and others mentioned are revered Daoist immortals and sages.)

This passage reveals the core principles of Daoist cultivation for immortality. Ge Hong (Baopuzi) states that to achieve transcendence, one must master three essential practices: conserving Jing (essence), cultivating breath regulation techniques, and ingesting the Golden Elixir (Jindan). Though seemingly simple, each contains profound subtleties impossible to grasp without dedicated practice under proper guidance.

Take breath regulation (Xingqi) as an example. While superficially resembling ordinary breathing exercises, it involves specific methods. The most advanced is "fetal breathing" (Taixi) – at its highest stage, practitioners breathe like a fetus in the womb without using mouth or nose. Beginners may practice by inhaling through the nose, holding the breath while counting silently to 120, then exhaling slowly through the mouth. The breath should be soundless, with longer inhalations than exhalations. A feather placed before the nose shouldn't stir during exhalation – only then is the technique correct. As skill deepens, breath retention may extend to a count of one thousand, enabling rejuvenation.

Timing matters profoundly in breath cultivation. Among the twelve daily two-hour periods (Shichen), the six from midnight to noon belong to "vital Qi" (Shengqi) – the optimal time for practice. The remaining six periods from noon to midnight are "waning Qi" (Siqi), unsuitable for cultivation. This constitutes the immortal's secret of "harnessing the six Qi energies."

Ge Hong laments how people consider curing severe illnesses as great virtue, yet fail to recognize that refining the Nine-Cycle Golden Elixir (the highest Daoist alchemical achievement) according to immortal scriptures could liberate all humanity from death – a merit far surpassing individual healings. The boundless virtue of the Yellow Emperor and Laozi deserves reverence, yet tragically, most dismiss immortality teachings as absurd tales.

This passage reveals the mysteries of "circulating Qi" (the practice of directing vital energy within the body) and the essential techniques of bedroom arts (ancient longevity practices) in Daoist cultivation.

Those skilled in harnessing Qi can blow upon water to make it flow backward several paces, extinguish flames with their breath, cause tigers and wolves to crouch motionless, or make venomous snakes coil into stillness. For those wounded by weapons, a breath can instantly stop bleeding. Even victims of poisonous insect bites hundreds of miles away can be cured immediately when the practitioner blows upon their own hand (left for men, right for women). Sudden illnesses can be relieved at once by swallowing the "Three-Nine Qi." Yet most people are restless and impatient, with few attaining the mental stillness required for cultivation.

The key to circulating Qi lies in moderation: avoid overeating, particularly raw vegetables and greasy foods, as these make Qi too vigorous to control; restrain anger, for rage disrupts Qi flow and may induce coughing. The author's granduncle, Immortal Ge Xuan, could remain submerged in deep waters throughout drunken stupors or summer days by mastering embryonic breathing (an advanced breath technique).

Regarding bedroom arts (ancient sexual cultivation), though dozens of schools existed, their core technique remains "returning essence to nourish the brain" (a method to redirect jing-essence upward). These secrets were transmitted orally among adepts, never recorded. Even celestial medicines prove ineffective without this technique, yet complete abstinence causes Qi stagnation, illness and shortened lifespan. Only through balanced moderation can one nurture life.

Ancient masters like Xuanni, Zidu, Rongcheng Gong, and Pengzu recorded only superficial teachings, never committing true secrets to writing. Seekers of longevity must practice diligently. The author records these teachings from his master Zheng Yin's oral transmission—not personal conjecture—though he hasn't mastered all techniques. Some Daoists mistakenly believe bedroom arts alone can confer immortality; this path leads nowhere.

The Inner Chapters of Baopuzi primarily critiques the chaotic state of Daoist scriptures in circulation during that time. Ge Hong (Baopuzi) points out that the authentic texts passed down from the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Laozi were actually very few. Many later works were supplemented by enthusiasts based on their own interpretations, leading to an overwhelming accumulation of Daoist writings.

The ancients were simple and lacked literary refinement. Their expositions of principles were often incomplete, their arguments unclear, and frequently missing crucial content, making them difficult to comprehend. Even when explanations were provided, they remained superficial, failing to truly elucidate the profound principles or guide beginners in grasping the mystical pathways of cultivation and the roots of fortune and misfortune. Merely reciting them ten thousand times would yield no real benefit.

Ge Hong advises that while one should read broadly, one must carefully select the essential teachings for deeper study. Lesser Daoist texts are not worth exhaustive examination. Some beginners, unable to distinguish depth from shallowness, collect any work labeled as Daoist with fervor, studying them by the boxload. This is like searching for a phoenix egg in a swallow’s nest or trying to catch an eel at the bottom of a well—no matter how diligent the effort, it is futile, for they will never find anything truly useful. The result is that they waste time on worldly affairs without attaining the effects of longevity, leading them to mistakenly believe that immortality is simply unattainable. In truth, this is like standing by a river admiring fish but never casting a net—it is not that there are no fish in the river.

Ge Hong particularly notes that while the Daode Jing (Classic of the Way and Virtue) originates from Laozi, its teachings are broad and general, lacking a complete exposition of cultivation methods. Memorizing it without grasping its essence is ultimately fruitless. As for the works of Wenzi, Zhuangzi, and Yin Xi (the border official who encountered Laozi at the pass), though they inherited the thought of Huang-Lao Daoism, they only elaborated on grand principles without revealing the true words of cultivation. Some even confused life and death, treating existence as toil and death as rest—such views are a thousand miles removed from the path of immortality and not worth indulging in. However, some of their allegories and analogies may occasionally serve as supplementary references in fragments.

This passage discusses the rationale for virtuous individuals choosing reclusion and Daoist cultivation during times of benevolent governance. Ge Hong (Baopuzi) employs historical figures to counter conventional skepticism.

Ancient sages like Chao Fu and Xu You became even more reclusive when encountering sagely rulers—precisely what made them remarkable. Though the Yellow Emperor (Xuanyuan) established perfect governance, his teacher Guang Chengzi never participated in court affairs; though Emperor Yao's reign brought universal peace, the immortal Wo Quan never served as his advisor—yet their absence didn't diminish these rulers' virtuous governance. When Tang of Shang overthrew the Xia, Wu Guang chose to drown himself with stones tied to his body; when King Wu of Zhou conquered Shang, Bo Yi and Shu Qi starved rather than eat Zhou's grain; as Duke Huan of Qi dominated the feudal lords, Minor Official Ji remained content in his humble alley; during Marquis Wen of Wei's prosperous reign, Duan Ganmu let his hair hang loose, refusing office. These hermits' existence never hindered the Han Dynasty's abundance of talent nor Emperor Wen's enlightened rule.

True cultivators remain unmoved by wealth and honor, content to make fragrant woods their towers, mountains their mansions, orchids their bedding, and leaves their curtains. They wear coarse cloth instead of official robes, wild herbs instead of delicacies—eating only what they cultivate, wearing only what their wives weave. Such individuals appear scarcely once in millennia, let alone those who abandon kinship, disregard family, view splendor as dung, sever desires, dwell alone on peaks, and commune with nature.

As for concerns that Daoist cultivation might deprive courts of worthy advisors, Ge Hong retorts: In this vast world, how many such genuine cultivators exist? The worry is groundless. He cites ancient worthies like Shi Hu the Farmer, Shan Juan, and Zi Zhou Zhibo to demonstrate how true recluses, though transcending worldly affairs, actually highlight their era's tolerance without disrupting cosmic patterns. These hermits pursue inner refinement through "inner vision" (neiguan meditation) to perceive formless realms and "inverted hearing" (fanti neizhao) to comprehend profound stillness—practices that coexist harmoniously with secular governance.

Those who cultivate immortality may not possess the talent to govern a nation, and their presence in court would be of little consequence. They are as insignificant as dust or morning dew—neither adding nor subtracting much whether they exist or not. Now that the realm is unified, talents from even the remotest regions flock to serve the court. Outstanding individuals pile up like mountains, while official positions remain scarce, leaving many waiting in line for appointments. Those who have served long complain about slow promotions, and even the most meritorious must endure the agony of waiting. In such an age of prosperity, there is certainly no shortage of talents like immortality seekers.

Long ago, Prince Jin (the crown prince of King Ling of Zhou) abandoned his duty to serve his father and relinquished his position as heir. Yet King Ling did not reprimand him for filial impiety. Similarly, when Yin Sheng (Yin Xi) resigned from office, forsaking his responsibility to guard the borders, the Zhou court did not accuse him of disloyalty. Why? Because enlightened rulers understood that these men did not despise worldly affairs or scorn their sovereign—they simply pursued different aspirations. A truly Daoist ruler embraces diversity, recognizing that human hearts differ and that uniformity should not be forced. Only thus can great achievements be realized. When the ruler harbors no suspicion, ministers find their rightful place, and their reputations flourish. Even the greedy would feel ashamed upon hearing of such governance.

I have heard this: When gentle breezes rise, fur coats and stoves become unnecessary; when the world is at peace, extraordinary individuals withdraw from public life. After war subsides, warhorses are released to roam the mountains, beacon towers fall into disuse, weapons are stored away, fine bows are put aside, and hunting falcons are cooked for food. Zhang Liang (styled Zifang) retired to private life after his great achievements, while Han Xin (styled Kuai Bu) cast off his armor to fish for leisure. How much more so for immortality cultivators, who are rare—one in ten thousand—why should the state begrudge such individuals?

The essence of immortality cultivation lies in purifying the heart and reducing desires. Its purpose is to preserve life and prolong longevity. It neither engages in worldly competition nor harms social customs—what crime is there in that? Mount Hua and Mount Huo (sacred Daoist peaks) stand so tall that they are not diminished by dust; the ocean is so deep that it does not swell with rainfall. A handful of soil cannot lessen a mountain's height, nor can a ladle of water reduce the ocean's depth. Since immortals are already few in this world, how could their cultivation possibly harm the myriad things of creation?

Some may question: If immortality can truly be attained, why do Confucian classics make no mention of it? Why did the Duke of Zhou and Confucius never speak of it? Why did the sages not cultivate immortality? Why do the wisest not attain eternal life?

If a person does not understand certain principles, they cannot become a sage; but even if they know these principles yet fail to study and cultivate, they still cannot attain immortality as a transcendent (xian).

Ge Hong (the Master Who Embraces Simplicity) replied: Each person's destiny corresponds to the celestial constellations—a principle I have explained in detail elsewhere. Your current attitude is like trying to gaze at the sky while carrying a basin on your head; naturally, you cannot see the radiance of the sun, moon, or stars. It is also like stretching your neck to peer into a river, yet never grasping the wondrous nature of its depths.

The Confucian Five Classics (Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Book of Rites, Book of Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals) omit countless matters, and there are many truths that neither the Duke of Zhou nor Confucius ever discussed. Let me briefly explain a small portion of these to you. Though these principles may provoke laughter, the truth often lies beyond ordinary comprehension. I will first outline the general idea.

Heaven and Earth are the grandest of all existences, and the Book of Changes (Yijing), perfected by the Nine Sages including Fuxi, has exhaustively elucidated the Dao of Yin-Yang. Yet if you ask those well-versed in the Yijing: How high is Heaven? How vast are the seas? How boundless is the cosmos? What supports Heaven and Earth? Who propels the movements of the sun, moon, and stars? Why do the sun and moon move at varying speeds? Why do solar and lunar eclipses occur? Why do comets appear?—the Yijing cannot answer these astronomical phenomena. If you further question scholars of the Spring and Autumn Annals, Book of Songs, Book of Documents, or Rites of Zhou, they too will have no answers, merely stating that these matters are unrecorded in orthodox texts and only appear in works like the Seven Luminaries Record by ancient astronomers such as Wu Xian, Gan De, and Shi Shen.

I press further: Are these astronomers' writings considered Confucian classics? They will surely say no. I then ask: Were these astronomers sages? Again, they will say no. If so, then as we live beneath the vast sky and tread upon the great earth, if we seek answers only within the Five Classics or search for truth solely in the works of the Duke of Zhou and Confucius—yet find no explanations for these natural phenomena—can we then dismiss them as false? Heaven and Earth are so immense that their mysteries far exceed what Confucian classics can encompass.

What the eyes can perceive is already difficult to fully comprehend, let alone those profound and ineffable mysteries beyond words? Consider this: there are realms where immortals ride clouds and mists, their livers and hearts never decaying; there are one-eyed, three-headed beings dwelling in tree nests and caves; strange races with horse bodies and dog hooves, or elongated arms and crossed legs; the land of Huangchi has no men, only people with holes in their chests and mouths on their sides. Lord Lin could make stones float and earthen boats sink; with a single glance, Shayi could summon dragons. Nüwa emerged from the earth, while magnificent palaces descended from heaven. There are flying dogs and wandering mountain shrines; armies transforming instantly into white cranes, noblemen becoming immortal cranes while lesser men turn to sand. The maiden Chou leans against withered trees, while the mythical Erfu embraces pillars. Hermit crabs walk after shedding their shells, and double-headed snakes provide skins for bowstrings. There is wood that never burns out and flames without heat; the eyeless birds of Changshu, heads without bodies and bodies without heads. The Jingwei bird fills the sea, while the Xuanrang beast is endlessly reborn. Fireproof cloth can cut jade; Yanmei the fire god spews flames. Ground mud purifies water, and dead wood changes form. The one-legged Shan kui tiptoes forward, while the nine-headed Shi Xiu... The human-faced bird Bifang, Shaoqian who commands spirits, the western Qiang deity Susuang flourishing under Tang Jing's influence, the Xianbei people shaped like silkworms. The kingdom of Linyi ruled through divine records, while Yongshu's emperor claimed power through corpse magic. Divine infants descend as swarms of insects take flight, and the three-eyed Zongmu mutate in the Jing Mountains. The five Ding strongmen caused mountains to collapse by luring snakes, while the divine bird Neishen flaps its wings across three seas. Golden tablets and jade inscriptions appeared by Yu the Great's well, and the sacred artifacts Zhengji and Pingheng were extracted from patterned stone—thousands of such wonders exist, none recorded in Confucian classics nor mentioned by the Duke of Zhou or Confucius. Does this mean they never existed?

As for the southerners who pass through pillars and repel enemies with their ears, who stand on water to draw bows; Bo Shi who balances on thousand-foot heights, or the swimmer Lü Liang singing while walking across abysses; the Song artisan carving ivory into lifelike illusions, or Gongshu Ban crafting wooden birds that fly; Li Zhu discerning fine hairs at a hundred paces, or Gui Hu lifting ten thousand jun weights; the Yue miracle doctor reviving the dead with acupuncture, or Shu Hai traversing a thousand li in a day; the Ying craftsman shaving white dust from a nose without cutting skin, or Zhong Du standing naked in bitter cold—even the Duke of Zhou and Confucius couldn't achieve these. Shall we deny their existence too? If even sages admit limitations, why should we marvel when ordinary seekers fail to attain immortality?

This passage explores the relationship between sages and Daoist cultivation. It conveys that sages—individuals of supreme moral attainment—never act through forced striving. They follow the natural course of the Dao (the Way), remaining undisturbed even when entangled in worldly affairs. Sages maintain profound detachment toward life and death, gain and loss, entrusting the span of their lifespan to heavenly decree. Precisely because of this transcendent attitude, it should come as no surprise that they attain immortality without deliberate cultivation practices.

The terms used here carry specific meanings: "not treating as private property" refers to not clinging to the body as personal possession; "not scheming" means avoiding calculated striving; "entrusting to destiny" signifies submitting to celestial arrangement. Through this text, Ge Hong (author of Baopuzi) demonstrates how the authentic sage's state fundamentally aligns with the path of Daoist cultivation—both emphasize harmonizing with nature and transcending material desires.