《抱朴子內篇》Vol. 9

Chapter 9 "The Meaning of Dao" from the Inner Chapters of Baopuzi explains:

The Great Dao encompasses all things between heaven and earth, yet it has no specific name. If we say it does not exist, its influence is undeniably real; if we say it exists, it cannot be seen or grasped. Even Lishou (the legendary inventor of arithmetic) could not calculate its mysteries, and Lijhu (a figure famed for extraordinary eyesight) could not discern its form. The musicians Wu Zha and Shi Kuang (renowned musicians of the Spring and Autumn period) could not hear its sound in the deepest silence, and the swiftest hunting hounds could not catch its traces beyond the cosmos.

In its nearness, it fills the finest tip of a hair; in its vastness, the entire universe cannot contain it. It is the sound behind sound, the echo behind echo, the form behind form, the shadow behind shadow. Square things stabilize because of it; round things move because of it. What descends does so because of it; what rises does so by its power. To call it "Dao" is already an approximation, a deviation from its true nature—how much further from the truth, then, are the hundreds of fragmented explanations people devise?

Ordinary people fail to seek the root of the Dao, chasing instead its superficial branches. If one can remain tranquil and serene, undisturbed by external things, cultivating the inner self through desirelessness and nourishing the spirit through purity and simplicity—eliminating greed and distracting thoughts, maintaining upright character, discarding excessive ambitions, shedding burdens that harm one’s true nature, tempering emotions of joy and anger, and dissolving attachments of love and hate—then blessings will come without seeking, and misfortune will retreat without effort. For destiny is shaped by inner cultivation, not external supplication. The Great Dao is right here; there is no need to search elsewhere.

Yet it is lamentable that ordinary people cannot preserve their innate truth or restrain their desires. They are enslaved by cravings, lost in worldly pursuits. Their emotions are swayed by external things; their wisdom is scattered by trivial matters. Indulgence in desire obscures heavenly principle; obsession with appearances distorts purity. When the mind is enslaved by luxury and pleasure, and the spirit is disturbed by chaotic fluctuations, disaster inevitably follows. These people vainly slaughter fattened livestock, drink fine wine, beat drums, and kneel in prayer, idly begging deities for blessings—yet they die without ever understanding the truth. Is this not pitiable? As for those who exhaust their vitality in agitation and deplete their Qi (vital energy) in toil, their lives become nothing but torment.

(Note: Rongwei refers to the body’s system of Qi and blood circulation; tongxi is a mythical swift beast; yaoming denotes profound and unfathomable depths.)

When the human body and primordial Qi (vital life energy) become excessively depleted, it is akin to violating the natural order. Overexertion leads to physical collapse, yet only then do people beg the gods to prolong their lives; when illness reaches an incurable stage, they offer sacrifices praying for recovery; sleeping exposed to cold winds on damp ground, they repent to the deities only after falling sick; reckless eating and drinking cause disease, yet they blame ghosts and spirits—how can the celestial deities save those who show such little regard for their own fragile bodies? Even slaughtering countless animals for sacrifices cannot compensate for such neglect.

Blessings cannot be obtained through groveling supplication, nor can calamities be averted through lavish rituals. If longevity could truly be extended by repeated prayers, or diseases cured by abundant offerings, then the wealthy would surely live forever, and the powerful would never fall ill. Yet reality proves otherwise: the gods do not accept sacrifices from heterodox beliefs (referring to non-orthodox practices), and spirits refuse offerings that violate ritual propriety. The alleys of the poor cannot display carriages of gold and silver, nor can commoners' gates match the grandeur of six-horse chariots. Even among humans, distinctions of nobility and humility exist—how much more so for the lofty and luminous celestial deities? Their nature differs fundamentally from mortals; exalted beyond measure, how could they be swayed by crude wine offerings or the kowtowing of common folk?

Disloyalty and unfilial conduct are the gravest sins. Even if such offenders spend fortunes in bribes and offer the most sumptuous sacrifices to gain favor before enlightened rulers or seek pardon for serious crimes, they will not succeed. Moreover, longevity is harder to obtain than reputation, and severe illness more difficult to overcome than punishment. The gods and spirits adhere to their own principles, protecting only the upright—those who seek blessings through crooked means will find it utterly impossible.

Even flawed rulers and long-suffering ministers of virtue know to reward goodness without regard to wealth and punish evil without favoritism, always acting according to law and justice. How much more so for deities far beyond human frailty? Flowery words cannot move them; precious bribes cannot buy them—this truth could not be clearer.

King Ling of Chu personally served as a shaman, sparing no expense in sacrifices, yet could not prevent the invasion of Wu; Prince Guangling of Han exhausted his treasury worshiping the fangshi (Daoist practitioner) Li Ban, but still faced execution for rebellion; Emperor Wen of Han was deeply superstitious, frequently sacrificing to deities, yet failed to preserve his descendants' throne; Sun Quan honored the Daoist Hua Xiang with titles and wealth, but could not extend his own lifespan. It was not for lack of lavish offerings or insufficient sincerity—the losses loomed as large as mountains while the gains were slight as autumn down. Does this not prove they were striving in entirely the wrong direction?

This passage recounts how several wise rulers in history attained blessings by prohibiting heretical sacrifices. The Eastern Han official Diwu Gong enjoyed both longevity and high status after eradicating cultist Daoists; Governor Song Jun of Lujiang secured enduring prosperity after abolishing mountain deity worship; Western Han Governor Wen Weng brought personal fortune and public peace upon demolishing water god temples; and Emperor Cao Cao of Wei received great blessings after banning improper sacrifices (rituals violating ceremonial norms). These precedents all prove that true blessings stem from virtuous conduct (De) rather than superstitious worship.

The author criticizes contemporary folk superstitions surrounding shamans (wizards): when people fell ill, instead of seeking medicine, they exhausted family fortunes on sacrifices and divination. Shamans falsely claimed to exorcise evil and cure diseases—if patients slightly recovered, they credited spirits' mercy; if patients died, they blamed unrelenting ghosts. Consequently, commoners bankrupted themselves, some starving or freezing to death, others turning to banditry, ultimately landing in prison. After ritual vessels and garments were depleted, even the dead couldn't be properly buried, their corpses rotting and breeding maggots—a truly pitiful state.

The text specifically notes: cult leaders like Zhang Jiao (of the Yellow Turban Rebellion) and Liu Gen falsely claimed thousand-year lifespans, deceiving people with minor tricks like "sitting invisibly" (invisibility arts) or "changing forms and appearances" (shape-shifting) to incite rebellion. The author advises the court to enforce strict laws banning these improper sacrifices, executing unrepentant shamans and displaying their corpses as public warning. Only thus can ignorance be eradicated at its root, stopping the sources of public hardship and banditry.

This passage reflects Ge Hong's core philosophy in Baopuzi that "only bright virtue (ming De) bears true fragrance"—emphasizing that real blessings come from self-cultivation and virtuous conduct (De), not superstitious rituals. Simultaneously, it exposes the social harm caused by rampant folk witchcraft in the late Han dynasty, carrying strong critical realism.

This passage criticizes fraudulent practitioners who exploit the banner of Daoism. They neither pursue the proper path of cultivation for longevity nor dedicate themselves to alleviating disasters and curing illnesses. Instead, they gather unscrupulous individuals, disrupting social order. These charlatans either bring ruin upon themselves or harm the innocent, deceiving common people to amass wealth that surpasses even that of nobles and royalty. Living extravagantly with multiple wives and concubines, they even maintain assassins and mercenaries, wielding influence that oversteps local authorities. The root of this problem lies in the government's failure to intervene promptly.

Ge Hong, the author, expresses his understanding of the situation but laments his powerlessness as an ordinary citizen. Local officials often fear these practitioners might possess genuine supernatural abilities, worrying that suppressing them could invite calamity. Moreover, the deluded families and followers of these frauds staunchly believe in them, obstructing efforts to curb their activities, which ultimately leads to unchecked misconduct.

Ge Hong illustrates his point with personal experience: he knew several individuals who never worshipped deities yet enjoyed long lives, high status, and flourishing descendants. He himself only performed ancestral rites during the four seasons and never prayed at the hundreds of roadside shrines he encountered while traveling thousands of miles—yet he never suffered carriage accidents or boat disasters. Surviving multiple epidemics through medicine and repeatedly escaping danger unscathed, he became even more convinced of the impotence of ghosts and spirits.

Finally, he mentions that among the hundreds of heterodox sects at the time, most demanded blood sacrifices involving animal slaughter. Only the Li Family Dao (an early Daoist school) was slightly better, as it abstained from killing but still required lavish and exquisite offerings, incurring excessive expenses. Though less violent, it remained far from pure and should likewise be banned. When asked about the origins of Li Family Dao, Ge Hong explains that it began during the reign of Emperor Wu of Wu in the Three Kingdoms period, when a man named Li A from Shu lived in caves and abstained from grains.

This passage recounts the legendary figure Li A (also known as Li Babai, "Li Eight-Hundred") and the later impostor Li Kuan who claimed his identity.

Li A was a mythical immortal said to have lived eight hundred years. People could divine fortunes simply by observing his expressions: a joyful countenance foretold good luck, sorrowful features predicted misfortune, a smile heralded great joy, while a faint sigh indicated deep sorrow—these omens never failed. He later vanished without trace.

Subsequently, a man named Li Kuan arrived in the Wu region (modern Jiangsu-Zhejiang area), speaking with a Shu dialect and claiming to cure illnesses with talisman water (fulu), with apparent effectiveness. Mistaking him for the immortal Li Babai, crowds flocked to become his disciples. In truth, Li Kuan possessed no genuine spiritual attainment—his teachings extended only to basic talismanic incantations, daoyin exercises (ancient health-preserving techniques), and breathing methods, completely lacking authentic longevity practices. His grain-avoidance methods (bigu, a fasting practice) could sustain practitioners for no more than a hundred days before physical exhaustion set in.

The author personally knew many who had met Li Kuan, all describing him as frail with age: deaf, dim-sighted, toothless, white-haired, and so forgetful he couldn't recognize his own descendants—utterly ordinary. Yet commoners still fabricated tales of his extraordinariness. When a devastating plague struck Wu, killing over half the population, Li Kuan contracted the disease. Claiming he needed secluded purification (zhaijie), he died in his meditation chamber. His followers stubbornly insisted he had achieved "corpse-liberation" (shijie, a Daoist concept of feigned death leading to immortality).

The author refutes this: the distinction between immortals and mortals lies precisely in their immunity to aging and death. Li Kuan's aged demise clearly proves his failure to attain the Dao. Had he truly achieved immortality, why wouldn't he first live visibly for a century or two before "liberating his corpse"? The passage concludes: the path to immortality exists in this world—but Li Kuan was never its true practitioner.

This passage reveals the absurdity of blind worship through three illustrative stories. The first tells of a man in Runan who set a snare in his field to catch river deer, only to have someone place a salted fish in the trap. When the owner discovered it, he mistook this for divine manifestation. Villagers subsequently built a temple to worship the "Salted Fish Deity," maintaining fervent offerings for seven or eight years until the fish-planter returned and exposed the truth.

The second account describes how Zhang Zhu of Nandun temporarily planted a young plum tree in a hollow mulberry tree, wrapping its roots in damp soil, then forgot about it. When villagers later saw plums growing from a mulberry, they considered it miraculous. After an eye-pain sufferer prayed beneath it and recovered, they sacrificed pigs in worship. The rumors grew increasingly exaggerated, sustaining continuous worship until Zhang Zhu returned to explain the simple facts.

The third narrative involves stone figures before the Peng family tombs in Runan. A peasant woman temporarily left her purchased cakes on a statue's head, then forgot them. When others discovered this, they mistakenly believed the stone possessed spiritual power. These stories collectively demonstrate how many so-called "divine manifestations" are merely illusions created through rumor and hearsay, cautioning people against being misled by superficial phenomena and urging rational examination of purported "miracles."

Through these examples, Ge Hong critiques the blind following prevalent during Daoism's spread in the Jiangnan region, pointing out that many adherents pursued external rituals without grasping the tradition's essence. He admonishes spiritual cultivators to discern truth from falsehood, warning against being deceived by fabricated miracles. Authentic practice, he emphasizes, must seek inner truth rather than outward marvels.

This passage recounts several stories about folk superstitions and scams, revealing people's tendency toward blind worship.

The first tale tells of a passerby who saw cakes placed on a stone figure's head. Others claimed it was a divine statue that could cure illnesses. Soon rumors spread that touching the stone head relieved headaches while touching its abdomen healed stomach pains, drawing pilgrims from afar. Initially people offered only chickens and sheep in sacrifice, but this escalated to cattle and sheep with tents erected and music played. Years later, the original cake-placer revealed the truth, and the site was abandoned.

The second story describes an ancient waterlogged tomb west of Luoyang where limewater allegedly healed sores. After someone accidentally bathed there and recovered, patients flocked to wash in the water—some even drank it for stomachaches. Local residents built a shrine to sell the "miracle water," later diluting it secretly when supplies ran low. Authorities finally stopped the practice by filling the tomb.

The third account involves Governor Ma of Xinggu County who had a relative pose as a Daoist priest, claiming to cure all diseases. Patients were forced to declare they'd been healed—or risk permanent illness. The scheme made them rich within ten days.

The author reflects: People often trade wisdom for folly when hearing promises of longevity, believing groundless claims. These stories expose the prevalence of blind faith and deception, reminding us to maintain rational judgment.

Some people enjoy believing in demons and ghosts, enthusiastically beating gongs and drums to worship so-called "deities." In truth, these are all tricks used by charlatans to deceive others. I record a few observations here to serve as a warning to those who remain unenlightened.

Someone once asked: "There are people in this world who know nothing of Daoist arts and techniques (methods and skills of Daoist cultivation), yet live long and peaceful lives—why is this?" The Baopuzi replied: Such cases are either due to the hidden accumulation of virtue (De) bringing blessings, or because they were born with a naturally long lifespan and thus age slowly, or simply because they were fortunate enough to avoid calamity. It is like game animals slipping through the hunter’s net or plants surviving after a great fire.

The most important thing is to protect oneself properly. One should cultivate methods of self-defense and carry celestial talismans (Fulu, Daoist protective charms). Those sacrificial rituals and prayers are utterly useless. One must rely on their own inviolable cultivation, not on hoping that ghosts and spirits will refrain from harming them. However, it should be noted that practices like "contemplating the mysterious and holding to the One" (meditative techniques of focusing the mind) and "embracing light to encircle the body" (visualizing Qi as a protective shield), though they may ward off evil and avert disaster, cannot prolong life or cure illness.

Those who follow the natural course of things and do not cultivate esoteric arts may indeed live out their destined years. But when faced with violent demonic disturbances or rampant epidemics, they will have no means of resistance. It is like preparing armor for battle or a raincoat for storms—if one happens to avoid war and foul weather, having or not having them makes no difference. But when arrows rain down and swords flash, the danger of standing unarmed becomes clear; when torrents pour and blizzards rage, the hardship of standing exposed on the road is all too obvious.

We must not let trivial matters—like wild herbs and water chestnuts—lead us to doubt the profound mysteries of Yin-Yang and the great Dao (the Way). Even less should we mislead later seekers into thinking that cultivating esoteric arts is useless.