《化書(譚子化書)》

The Book of Transformations (Huashu) by Perfect Zixiao (Tan Jingsheng) opens its first volume by expounding the evolutionary principles of the Dao. The Dao's movement manifests in two directions: the "waning" (declining) path begins from emptiness (xu) giving birth to spirit (shen), spirit generating primordial qi, qi forming physical bodies, with these corporeal forms ultimately constituting the tangible existence of all things. Conversely, the "application" path involves physical forms returning to qi, qi reverting to spirit, and spirit dissolving back into emptiness—only by achieving this state of luminous void can one commune with all existence. The ancient sages comprehended these patterns of obstruction and flow, mastering the wellspring of creation itself.

Through forgetting the body to nurture qi, forgetting qi to nurture spirit, and forgetting spirit to return to emptiness, they ultimately attained the "Great Unity" (datong) state where substantial and insubstantial interpenetrate. This primordial power is called "original essence" (yuanjing) when stored, "ten thousand numina" (wanling) when activated, "Supreme Unity" (Taiyi, the cosmic source) when contained, and "Supreme Clarity" (Taiqing, the highest realm) when expressed. Practitioners who harmonize the natural waxing and waning of yin-yang (represented by the trigrams Kan and Li) within their bodies, perceive celestial winds through the seven orifices, circulate authentic qi to transcend seasonal extremes, and fill themselves with pure yang energy can ultimately surpass life and death—this constitutes the wondrous "Way of Spiritual Transformation" (shenhua zhi dao).

The text illustrates its principles through extraordinary phenomena: serpents transforming into turtles, sparrows becoming clams—creatures abruptly altering form beyond human constraints. Like observers fixating on objects while neglecting the space surrounding them, the text reveals that form and void were never truly separate; the obstructions are of our own making.

When aged maples become soaring immortals or rotten wheat metamorphoses into butterflies, insentient matter gains consciousness; when virtuous women petrify into steadfast stones or mountain worms transmute into lilies, sentient beings return to mineral stillness. This demonstrates that wood, earth, metal, and stone all harbor numinous potential—spirit and qi permeate all existence, revealing the fundamental unity of myriad things. Which truly is object and which is self? What possesses awareness and what lacks it? All phenomena share one origin; ten thousand spirits inhabit one body—this constitutes the profoundest truth.

Regarding sensory perception, the text proposes: what the eye cannot see may be observed through luminous mirrors; what the ear cannot hear may be perceived via the qi of emptiness. Though spirit resides within, the faculties of seeing and hearing extend outward. Just as overgrown toes may be trimmed or cleft lips mended, our sensory organs can be reconfigured and physical forms reshaped. This embodies the Daoist cultivation ideal of "simultaneous refinement of form and spirit" (xingshen jumiao).

This passage from the Book of Transformations (Huashu) reveals the relationship between essence and appearance, and how the human mind becomes deluded by illusions.

The first section explains how people are often deceived by layers of false appearances. It's like using counterfeit money to make purchases—the deeper one goes, the more even ghosts and spirits can deceive humans. Our sensory faculties (vital Qi, ten orifices, five senses) become as confused as a drunkard, enslaved by external things. In truth, the physical form is like an excrescence on the body. If one can see through this layer of illusion, true freedom can be attained.

The second section employs dancing as a metaphor: when whirling in dance, one feels the room spinning; when watching swirling eddies, dizziness arises—yet these are all self-generated illusions. Like magic tricks that turn towels into rabbits or medicinal stones into horses, people are constantly deceived by sweet words and heavy makeup. Only those with a purified heart-mind remain unswayed by external phenomena.

The third section discusses alchemical practices. Some use cinnabar as a substitute for grain, feeling satiated in times of plenty but hungry during famine. In truth, both hunger and fullness are mental constructs. By seeing through the distinctions between existence and non-existence, life and death, inner and outer, one transcends material constraints and is no longer enslaved by food and drink.

The mirror reflection analogy appears in the fourth section: when multiple mirrors reflect each other, there's ultimately no difference between the reflection and the original. The physical form isn't absolutely real, nor are reflections completely illusory—understanding this principle leads to unity with the Dao.

The fifth section expounds hibernation wisdom. Certain creatures withstand cold and hunger through dormancy, even achieving immortality. Their spirit remains tranquil, free from thought and worry. Daoist practitioners should emulate this state—observing the myriad things to understand the body, comprehending the body to awaken to the spirit, ultimately penetrating the true Dao.

Finally, owls and chickens serve as contrasting examples: owls see well at night but are blind by day, while chickens are the opposite. There's no inherent standard of normalcy—these are simply differing circadian characteristics. This metaphor illustrates how all things lack absolute standards, with differences being entirely relative.

This passage discusses different perspectives and levels of understanding in perceiving reality. Just as owls and chickens have contrasting views of day and night—though day and night themselves have no inherent brightness or darkness—only those who transcend such dualities attain true mastery.

People are often blinded by four mirror-like biases: A jade tablet (guijing) magnifies objects, a pearl mirror (zhujing) diminishes them, a whetstone mirror (dijing) shows things upright, while a bowl mirror (yujing) inverts them. Through these mirrors, we realize that size and beauty are relative. Our physical forms and Qi (vital energy) can deceive us, while our Shen (spirit) is easily disturbed by external influences, much like how treacherous ministers mislead a ruler. Thus, one must guard against such disturbances as vigilantly as one would against fire or tigers, maintaining simplicity and purity to reach higher states of being.

A tiger hunter sees only the tiger, oblivious to the rocks; a dragon-slayer perceives only the beast, unaware of the water. This illustrates how all things can dissolve into emptiness—even the body may cease to exist. When the state of "no-self" merges with the void of all phenomena, one gains the freedom to appear and vanish at will, transcending life and death. Dust motes swirling in the air resemble snowflakes, yet we fail to see them; the battles of cave ants roar like bulls, yet we hear nothing. How much more lies beyond our perception?

A dragon transforming into a tiger traverses the void—yet the void is not nothingness; piercing metal and stone reveals they, too, lack solidity. Being and non-being interconnect; self and other unite. Such transformations have no beginning or end. Those who grasp this truth understand that form never truly perishes, nor does spirit ever fade.

Drifting clouds, having no fixed shape, embrace all colors; flawless mirrors, free of blemishes, reflect all things. To say water contains the sky is incomplete—the sky also contains water. A mirror a hundred paces away captures a person’s image, yet the person cannot see their own reflection. This proves the Supreme Void (Taixu) encompasses everything. Ordinary minds yearn for distant heights, unaware they already dwell within emptiness. The divine is never far—thus, the noble-minded cultivate inner rectitude and dignified bearing.

The Huashu (Book of Transformations) explores the principle of mutual transformation between all things. Those who comprehend these truths can roam freely between heaven and earth, befriending the divine (higher beings sought in Daoist cultivation) without transgressing.

Regarding desires and perceptions: Some gag at the mere description of rotten food, while salivating at the mention of delicacies. Yet rotten food is ultimately emptiness, and fine dishes will eventually vanish—still the body's reactions persist. Some fear fermented bean paste as they would caterpillars, while others crave salted fish as if it were phoenix fat. Those who understand this principle can transcend luxury and frugality, honor and disgrace, releasing judgments of right and wrong while forgetting fortune and misfortune.

The "Great Transformation" section reveals the chain of cosmic evolution: From emptiness emerges the divine (Shen), from the divine arises primordial Qi, from Qi takes form physical shape, from shape manifests consciousness, and from consciousness springs thought. This progression continues: Eye contact develops into ritual, ritual into hierarchy, hierarchy into distinctions of status, leading to elaborate robes, chariots, palaces, guards, feasts, extravagance, exploitation, deception, punishments, chaos, war, plunder—ultimately ending in destruction. This momentum cannot be resisted when it comes, nor recalled when it departs. Thus sages guide with Dao and De (Virtue), instruct with benevolence and righteousness, restrain through laws and rites—all to preserve national prosperity. Yet when Dao and De fade, when benevolence fails and rituals collapse, they instead teach people cunning and depravity, bringing social disorder. Rulers, blind to these ills, and people, numb to suffering—how can such a state be remedied?

The "Zhengyi" (Orthodox Unity, fundamental Daoist truth) section observes: All know amaranth juice dissolves turtle shells, yet none realize vermilion grass (an immortal herb) dissolves human form. Hence we understand the divine (Shen) can divide, primordial Qi can separate, and physical forms can disperse. Scattered as the myriad things, they feel no lack; gathered as one, they feel no excess. Like wind scattering hair, like souls drifting in dreams, like severed earthworms wriggling at both ends—for the Great Void (cosmic origin) is unified emptiness, the Great Spirit unified Shen, the Great Qi unified energy, the Great Form unified shape. Different names share one root, neither forcibly retained nor truly lost—this is Zhengyi's essence. Heaven, earth, and all things are ultimately manifestations of this unity.

This passage from the Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) reveals the natural laws governing the mutual transformation and cyclical generation-conquest among all things in heaven and earth. The cosmos draws energy from emptiness, humans derive nourishment from the cosmos, while parasites in the human body sustain themselves by consuming a person's Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy). Just as borers gnaw at trees until both the withered tree and the insects perish, or treacherous ministers plunder state resources only to lose their refuge when the nation collapses, so too does the enlightened person understand the wisdom of conserving vital energies, restraining desires, and avoiding excessive wealth—thus achieving longevity even as heaven and earth age.

A child admires his shadow without realizing how shadows influence him; the arrogant man insults a statue only to be harmed by it. Similarly, those who govern households, states, or the world often find themselves transformed by the very subjects they seek to control. From the era of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors to the Qin and Han dynasties, the Dao and De (Virtue) gradually devolved into warfare—like drunkards growing drunker or the sick becoming sicker, an inexorable decline.

The yangsui (ancient solar igniter) concentrates sunlight to produce fire, while the fangzhu (ancient dew collector) condenses moisture, demonstrating the principle of mutual resonance among phenomena. A person's character can be discerned through their gaze: raised eyes indicate arrogance, lowered eyes reveal cunning, while level eyes show benevolence. True cultivation lies within—only when one's Shen (spirit) merges with the Dao can lasting vitality be achieved.

Life and death form an eternal cycle: emptiness gives birth to spirit, spirit transforms into Qi, Qi coagulates as flesh and blood, forming a physical body that progresses from infancy to decrepitude, only to return to emptiness after death. All things cannot but be born, cannot but die—understanding this truth leads one to the realm of perfect emptiness.

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) explores the relationship between form and spirit through several key insights:

On the relationship between body and consciousness: Though nails and hair belong to our physical form, cutting them causes no pain because Qi (vital energy) doesn't reach these parts. This reveals that our Shen (spirit-consciousness) itself doesn't experience pain—it's the flesh, blood, and bones that create suffering. Recognizing that emotions like joy and anger don't originate from consciousness itself but arise through physical forms allows one to transcend the constraints of life and death.

The nature of consciousness: The highest state is the formless Shen of the Supreme Ultimate (Taishang). Heaven and earth manifest as the yin-yang expression of consciousness, while humans and animals serve as flesh-and-blood vessels for spirit. Though forms differ, their essence remains consciousness. Just as water becomes turbid when freezing into ice, consciousness becomes obscured when condensed into physical form. Those who understand that consciousness returns to its original purity when form dissolves can attain the supreme state.

The mystery of spiritual communion: Turtles communicate through eye contact, cranes through calls—these are exchanges of Shen and Qi sparked by affection. The perfected person attunes their expansive mind to heaven and earth, harmonizes Qi to nurture all things, and achieves spiritual resonance with common people. When reaching this state of perfect unity, even military banners, drums, and reward systems become unnecessary—this represents the highest form of "spiritual communion" (shen jiao).

The principle of cosmic resonance: Emptiness gives birth to consciousness, consciousness generates primordial Qi, and Qi condenses into form. Sound transmission resembles valley echoes—when one hole resonates, all holes respond; when one valley sounds, all valleys reverberate. This phenomenon of mutual resonance reveals the universal principle of interconnectedness, embodying the cosmic essence of "great containment" (da han) that embraces all existence.

Sound and form mutually guide and contain each other, like the buzzing of autumn mosquitoes or the circling of flies—omnipresent in their manifestations. From this, we understand that even the slightest thought will inevitably be perceived, and the most minute whisper will certainly be heard. Only the profound mystery of those who have truly attained the Dao (the Way) remains unseen by heaven and earth, unknown to yin-yang, and unobserved by spirits and ghosts. Why is this so? Precisely because their actions fully align with the highest realms of Dao (the Way), De (Virtue), benevolence, and righteousness.

(This passage uses the metaphor of insects to illustrate how all things have perceptible traces—only those who have realized the Dao transcend this universal pattern. In Daoist terminology, "those of great attainment" refers to practitioners whose cultivation has reached the highest level, their actions harmonizing so completely with the cosmic Dao that they surpass ordinary perception.)

Book of Transformations, Volume II primarily expounds on methods of utilizing spiritual power to alter external phenomena. The "Cloud Dragon" chapter explains that the reason cloud dragons and wind tigers can manifest supernatural abilities lies in mastering the relationship between Shen (spiritual essence) and Qi (energetic manifestation). Shen is like the mother while Qi resembles the child—summoning Qi through Shen is as natural as a mother calling her child, with certain response. For instance, to dispel filth one must summon the Qi of the Five Directional Celestial Emperors; to subdue venomous snakes requires mobilizing the essence of the Five Planets. However, the author emphasizes that these external magical applications pale in comparison to first cultivating internal spiritual power—only with this foundation can one achieve omnipotence in external manifestations.

The "Fierce Tiger" chapter uses the tiger as an example to demonstrate that when spiritual power becomes formidable, even iron implements can levitate and mountains rivers may shift. True potency lies not in martial techniques but in the natural majesty emanating from spiritual perfection; moving ten thousand hearts requires not flattering words but inner harmony.

"Applying Shen" illustrates through legless creatures that spirit surpasses physical form. Snakes coil, leeches suction inversely, and snails contract—all demonstrating Shen's mastery over form. Those relying solely on physical movement face limitations, while masters of Shen can traverse ten thousand li while seated. Using form to drive Shen leads to decline, whereas employing Shen to command form ensures vitality.

The "Drainage Hole" chapter cites life wisdom like drain holes preventing floods and rice bran curing choking, revealing that magical methods have no fixed patterns. Between Yin-Yang, male-female, hardness-softness, wisdom-folly—all contain mutual generation and restraint. Understanding that "all phenomena are fundamentally empty, all methods originally nonexistent" enables one to silence bells and drums or make chariot wheels battle, transforming human relationships. The key lies in comprehending the essence of emptiness, grasping phenomenal patterns from the heart-mind's origin.

This passage explores the relationship between the human mind and the transformations of all things, as well as the path to transcendence through cultivation.

Regarding the phenomenon of "wandering spirits" (ghosts) possessing shamans: When possessed, the shaman eats, drinks, and speaks like a divine being; when the spirit departs, they return to ordinary human state. This demonstrates how thoughts can influence each other, Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) can transform, Shen (spirit) can be seized, and hunpo (ethereal and corporeal souls) can be recorded. The body serves as the dwelling of the spirit, while the spirit manifests through the body. Understanding this principle reveals how all things undergo metamorphosis.

The section on "emptiness" states: Those who attain a mind free of attachments remain unharmed by water or fire, untouched by weapons, and even destiny cannot claim their lives. Just as one engrossed in joy forgets hunger, or one consumed by sorrow forgets pain, those who pursue true emptiness transcend life and death.

"Substance and Void" uses wood as metaphor: A log of equal size feels spacious when placed on the ground, yet precarious when balanced atop a pole. This isn't about physical dimensions but the mind's perception of solidity and emptiness. Thus, fearing heat intensifies its sensation, dreading pain amplifies its sting. The human mind knows no constancy, nor do the natures of things. Comprehending this allows one to walk through water without getting wet or handle fire without being burned.

The "fox spirit" passage explains: A clear mirror reveals the true forms of fox spirits and vermin because it harbors no distracting thoughts. Similarly, the void, though mindless, perceives all; heaven, without intention, guides nature's course. The truly enlightened need no schemes—Jing and Qi naturally gravitate to them. Those who emulate the state of "non-being" can reach anywhere.

"Turning the Ship" employs nautical and mechanical analogies: A giant vessel turns with but a short pole; a thousand-jun crossbow releases with a tiny trigger. A single eye surveys the entire sky; one person governs ten thousand people. Understanding heaven and earth's patterns, mastering Yin-Yang's mysteries, and penetrating the nature of spirit enables one to alter destiny—even reverse heaven and earth.

Finally, "Mental Transformation" observes: The most licentious become women; the most violent turn into tigers. This proves how the human mind can manifest all manner of metamorphoses.

This passage from the Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) reveals the natural laws governing the metamorphosis of all things. Human emotions directly influence physical states: joy makes the body expansive and harmonious, delight renders the form light and free, anger causes physical rigidity and tension, while sorrow manifests as a gaunt and mournful appearance. This demonstrates how body and mind naturally transform according to internal conditions.

The text observes that although the human body measures merely six chi in stature, it contains infinite transformative potential—capable of dragon-serpent agility, metal-stone solidity, or plant-like growth. Such is the vastness of this Dao of transformation.

Regarding emotional impacts: grief produces tears, pain induces nasal discharge, resentment forms goiters in the neck, and rage generates abscesses on the skin. Where consciousness directs, Qi responds accordingly. Thus, accomplished cultivators moderate grief and pain while abstaining from anger and resentment, thereby mastering the primordial Qi between heaven and earth. Like pearls within clamshells or jade concealed in stone, only by preserving internal Jing (essence) can precious things be nurtured.

The text employs the parable of the eumenid wasp raising caterpillar larvae to illustrate how shared consciousness and fused Jing-Qi create marvelous connections across species. Though forms differ, their essence interflows. Hence horses can be trained to fly, fish conditioned to run, wooden puppets imbued with spirit, and infants mirroring their wet-nurse's mannerisms—proof that these transformative principles operate close at hand.

Cross-species reproduction exemplifies these patterns: the child of a Hu father and Yue mother develops thick whiskers with short legs, while a Man father and Qiang mother begets offspring with prominent nasal bridges. Like hairy peaches grafted onto pear trees or sweetened apricots grafted onto plum trees, this demonstrates how opposing qualities—Yin-Yang, hardness-softness, curvature-straightness, length-brevity, size-smallness, square-roundness, water-fire, cinnabar-yellow—mutually engender transformation. Thus metals/stones become pearls/jade, species transmute into one another—all manifestations of creation's wondrous laws.

Finally, the interaction of dual Qi: when Yin and Yang energies converge, lingzhi mushrooms grow without roots; where aridity and humidity alternate, borers emerge without parentage. Therefore, those who emulate Yin-Yang mutual generation for self-cultivation and study dry-moist mutual nourishment for nature refinement invariably succeed. Observing Five Phase (Wood-Fire-Earth-Metal-Water) transformations reveals fire's smelting principle; watching ceaseless water flow discloses its operational Dao; the Bagua's cyclical motion embodies heaven-earth's operating laws; miraculous phenomena manifest the Dao of change. Thus noble persons comprehend themselves through observing myriad things, and perceive the Great Dao through self-knowledge. The true Dao is simultaneously profound and subtle.

The Chapter on Sea Fish

Some sea fish have eyes as small as shrimp, and people often mock them. Yet the ancients used fireflies in bags as lamps for illumination, unaware that one cannot run without sunlight by day or avoid losing their way without candlelight at night. People watching puppet shows know they are fake, yet never question their own perceptions; they grieve when friends depart, yet fail to reflect on the nature of life itself. Whether wise or foolish, all struggle to distinguish truth from illusion. Only those who maintain an innocent heart and cultivate the Great Mystery (referring to the origin of the Dao) remain free from such delusions.

The Chapter on Pines by the Stream

The pine trees by the mountain stream endure frost because they embody the righteous Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth; fine jade withstands fierce flames because it condenses the purest essence. Thus, those who attain the Dao wield spiritual banners by day and gather divine herbs by night. They perceive what ordinary people cannot sense and contemplate what common minds cannot fathom. Hence, they feel no cold when winter winds blow and no heat when summer fires burn. When noble individuals accumulate righteous Qi, they can repel ghosts and subdue wickedness; when they nurture supreme Jing (essence), they can bring blessings to all and safeguard prosperity. Why bother calculating gains and losses?

The Chapter on Movement and Stillness

Friction between movement and stillness generates fire; the interaction of dryness and dampness forms water, and the clash of water and fire produces transformation. Pouring hot water into a well creates hail, and spraying water toward the sun summons a rainbow. Petty men thus realize: mastering Yin-Yang can summon the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), command heaven and earth, and even fashion new suns and moons. Those who hear such claims may dismiss them as absurd—but observe the human body: a round head and square feet (symbolizing the round heaven and square earth), an active upper body and a still lower body, the Five Phases circulating within, and the sun and moon shining without—is this not the very principle of creating a new universe?

The Chapter on Sound and Qi

The notes of qin and se zithers bring tranquility, while the melodies of Zheng and Wei folk music evoke joy and relaxation. Tapping on tiles sends chills down the spine, and beating war drums makes even feathers tremble. Such is the law of resonance: harmonious sounds summon Yang Qi, transforming into gentle breezes that nourish all things, while discordant sounds brew harsh winds that devastate them. Qi generates sound, and sound in turn influences Qi. Flowing Qi produces sound, sound vibrations stir Qi, and stirring Qi forms wind—wind arises, and all things follow its changes. Thus, through sound, one can summon clouds and storms, beckon frost and hail, draw phoenixes to sing, and inspire bears to dance—even befriend the divine. Such is the profound mystery of music.

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformation) expounds the profound principle of universal interconnection and effortless transformation.

The highest state is achieving "Great Unity" (Datong) — where emptiness can contain emptiness, divine spirits (Shen) can accommodate divine spirits, Qi can merge with Qi, light can encompass light, and forms can bear forms. Those who comprehend this truth find their emotions can interflow and their bodies can intermingle. Transforming with fire, one becomes fire; transforming with water, one becomes water; merging with sun and moon, one becomes celestial luminaries; uniting with metal and stone, one turns into mineral essence. Only the perfected sage (Daren) who has attained the Dao can dissolve into all things and transform without limitation, reaching the realm of the Sovereign of Emptiness (Xuhuang).

The true Teacher of Emperors (Dishi) functions like a mirror that reflects all things without effort, or like bellows that fill with Qi without striving. The nose perceives scents through its emptiness, ears hear sounds through their hollowness, eyes see colors through their receptivity, and the tongue tastes flavors through its openness. Thus when the heart-mind communes with the hidden mysteries, it perceives all phenomena; when the spirit (Shen) unites with primordial nothingness, it comprehends all affairs. The perfected sage masters the pivot of transformation ("seizing its mechanism"), concealing profound subtleties—even wielding arcane arts like feather talismans (Fulu) and mysterious Yin essences to protect nations and rectify eras, naturally becoming the teacher of sovereigns.

Amber cannot attract decayed grass, cinnabar cannot penetrate scorched metal, lodestone cannot attract rusted iron, nor primal Qi ignite earthen stoves. Therefore, the perfected sage skillfully employs the quintessence of the Five Phases (Wuxing), ingeniously captures the numinous vitality of all things, partakes of celestial blessings, and rides the glory of wind-steeds (or phoenixes). The essential method of cultivation lies in forgetting external forms to seek the inner true nature.

Book of Transformations, Volume Three was composed by the Perfected Purple Mist (Zixiao Zhenren) Tan Jingsheng, primarily exploring the philosophy of "transformation through virtue."

On the "Five Emperors" discourse: Confucianism speaks of the Dao through the Five Constants (humaneness, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness), dividing them into five types of conduct, classifying them according to the Five Phases (Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, Earth), dispersing them as five colors (blue, red, yellow, white, black), transforming them into five musical notes (gong, shang, jiao, zhi, yu), correlating them with the Five Sacred Mountains (Mount Tai, Mount Heng, etc.), matching them with the five major planets, five types of metals, five categories of deities, and aligning them with five flavors (sour, sweet, bitter, spicy, salty), which evoke five emotions (joy, anger, sorrow, happiness, resentment). Yet those fixated on these external forms are like insects swimming in the void of a vinegar vat or frogs floating in the vast ocean from the bottom of a well—they cannot perceive the primordial chaos of heaven and earth nor fathom the boundless limits of the cosmos. They rush about day and night yet move further from the Dao, unaware that the Five Constants are fundamentally one. Only by forgetting names can one comprehend principles; only by forgetting principles can one grasp the true essence. Nourish with a tranquil heart and dwell in profound serenity, allowing spirit (Shen) and Qi to merge naturally with the mind. Like water merging into water without distinguishing clarity from turbidity, or fire merging into fire without discerning brightness from darkness—this is the state of attaining the quintessence of the Five Phases and the true marrow of the Five Constants. When concentrated, a mustard seed suffices; when dispersed, all things benefit. In application, it is like pouring fine wine into a vessel; in responding to things, it is like a mirror reflecting images. Thus, one can transform into all phenomena, nurture all beings, penetrate Yin-Yang, and embrace emptiness like the divine. This is how one can strategize like an emperor and wield the balance of heaven and earth. Confucius was such a sage.

The metaphor of the "moth": The wise and foolish of this world bustle about like moths darting toward night candles or flies crashing against morning windows—knowing only to advance without turning back, pressing forward without retreating. They understand pursuing gain and avoiding harm but fail to recognize that accumulated benefits invite calamity. To deem others wise while remaining unwise oneself—what kind of wisdom is that? To comprehend external things while ignorant of oneself—what kind of erudition is that? Thus, the truly elevated transcend profit and harm, achieving perfect harmony in all actions.

The warning of "divergent minds": Tigers crouch in mountain forests and snakes glide through marshes, having no enmity with eagles, yet eagles cry out warnings—all because tigers and snakes harbor divergent minds. When the qilin bears sharp horns, the hundred beasts refuse submission; when the phoenix sports a pointed beak, the hundred birds shun its company; when a ruler employs cunning wisdom, the world withholds allegiance. Those skilled in running will eventually stumble; those adept at contention will ultimately fail. Where there is calculation, there is termination; where there is cleverness, there is exhaustion. The artful become governed by the artless; the cunning become enslaved by the sincere.

On the Use of Deception

Rulers create bows and arrows to intimidate the world, yet the people may steal these very weapons to rebel against them. The noble-minded establish rituals and music to restrain the petty, yet the petty may appropriate these same rites to masquerade as noble. The rulers of states delight in amassing wealth, hoarding grain and cloth, and expanding military might to guard against thieves—yet thieves may seize these weapons, plunder the granaries, and ultimately overthrow the state. Some say a nation’s safety depends on virtue (De), others claim its rise and fall is a matter of fate. If virtue is truly reliable, why hoard so much grain and cloth? If fate can be trusted, why expand the military so greatly?

On Cleverness and Wisdom

Those who appear capable of all things are, in truth, deeply limited; those who seem to know all are profoundly ignorant. Only by setting aside the bow can one truly grasp the Dao of archery; only by releasing the whip and reins can one master the art of charioteering; only by abandoning musical instruments can one comprehend the essence of music; only by relinquishing cunning schemes can one attain the wisdom of sages. Thus, the ruler who governs all under heaven does so through the Dao and its Virtue (De), the ruler who preserves a state acts through benevolence and righteousness, while the ruler who dooms a state relies solely on petty cleverness.

On Governing a State

A state’s rites include sacrifices to heaven, earth, and ancestors, reverence for spirits and deities, and divination with turtle shells to discern fortune and misfortune. Honoring spirits ensures belief in retribution for blessings and calamities; divination allows foresight into prosperity and decline. Yet some rulers act with extreme faithlessness: oppressing the people to build city walls, seizing their grain to fill state coffers, imagining that blessings can be seized by force and ruin resisted. This is doubt toward the spirits, deceit toward divination, and betrayal toward the people. Under such governance, rewards fail to inspire, punishments fail to deter, and the state cannot endure.

On the Yellow Sparrow and the Dark Bird (Swallow)

The yellow sparrow flits daily in courtyards, appearing close to humans yet always fearful of them—and humans often disturb it. The dark bird (swallow) occasionally enters homes, drawing near without fear, and humans never trouble it. The sparrow moves hastily, chirps anxiously, darts wary glances, and harbors unease in its heart; the swallow moves with ease, sings clearly, gazes calmly, and rests with an open spirit. Thus, those who suspect others will be suspected; those who guard against others will be guarded against. The noble person’s way of being lies in benevolence, righteousness, moderation, and integrity—why then fear calamity?

On the Caged Ape and the Boxed Tiger

However much the caged ape leaps and clambers, it cannot escape its prison; the tiger in the box... (The text breaks off, but the implication is clear: even in its ferocity, it cannot break free. A metaphor for how human capability is bound when constrained by selfish desires or schemes.)

Neither anger nor a thousand schemes can escape the grasp of the wise, and no matter how crafty the petty man's machinations may be, they cannot surpass the great Dao of the sage. The Dao of the sage is as natural as the earth bearing all things and the heavens covering the four directions. They never complain about fate nor deceive others. Even when encountering resentment, they do not grow angry; when deceived, they do not seek revenge. Thus, all things naturally submit to them.

Regarding the eternal Dao (the unchanging law): Benevolence and righteousness are conventional paths for navigating the world, but if applied improperly, they can lead to the downfall of a state. Loyalty and trustworthiness are common virtues in human conduct, but if misused, they can invite blame. Integrity is a steadfast quality, but if rigidly adhered to, it can harm the people. Eloquence is a common tool for communication, but if mishandled, it can bring disaster. The key lies in this: the foolish always seek to control others, while the wise focus on cultivating themselves. Forcing the people to toil in the fields breeds resentment, and urging them to abstain from food provokes anger. Just as bait can lure fish, throwing it directly into a school of fish will only scare them away. Though ants are drawn to pungent smells, tossing such things directly into their nest will disperse them. This is all due to a lack of understanding of the principle of "transformation" (subtle, gradual influence).

On gratitude and joy: Gratitude born of a father's kindness is not true filial piety, and joy derived from a ruler's favor is not true loyalty. True gratitude begins when one no longer forces it, and true joy arises when one no longer pursues it. Excessive gratitude inevitably breeds resentment, and excessive joy leads to anger. Gratitude and joy held in the heart are like poisonous weeds in a field or sparks in dry grass—dangerous indeed. Thus, the true noble person navigates the world without feeling honored by rank, humbled by courtesy, or compelled to flaunt closeness or suspect distance. Insults do not provoke anger—how, then, could there be any trouble from gratitude or joy?

The diagnostic method of the imperial physician: A steady, strong pulse is the way of life for the noble (health), while a chaotic, slippery pulse is the way of death for the petty (illness). The divination method of the court diviner: A smooth, unhurried hexagram signifies good fortune, while a jagged, sharp one foretells calamity. From this, we see that the principles of the world are interconnected. Thus, observing a state reveals its ministers, observing ministers reveals the ruler, and observing the ruler predicts rise or decline. Ministers may choose to serve enlightened rulers, and rulers may select worthy ministers to employ. Outward courtesy can be feigned, but inner tranquility cannot. Robes and caps may be counterfeit, but demeanor and bearing cannot. Words may be polished, but tone and inflection cannot be concealed.

On slander: What is hidden in the heart is called scheming; what plots against others is called conspiracy. Yet people do not realize...

Book of Transformations, Volume Three primarily elucidates the dialectical relationship between social governance and personal cultivation, employing vivid metaphors to reveal profound truths.

On Virtue (De) and Governance: People understand the superficial principles of virtue but rarely truly practice benevolence and righteousness. When society relies solely on rewards and punishments for management, market transactions become utilitarian; when people distinguish between closeness and distance, petty individuals exploit the gaps. The truly impartial Dao (the Way) is like gold left in the street that no one dares steal, or court discussions where none dare spread slander—it emerges naturally.

On Establishing Rules: Painters dare not arbitrarily alter divine iconography, nor sculptors disrespect sacred prototypes, for unauthorized changes inevitably bring misfortune. Similarly, those who design traps may die by them, those who create obstacles may perish by them, those who establish merit may be humiliated by it, and those who make laws may be ensnared by them. Therefore, ceremonial deference lies in understanding its dangers, merit in leaving no trace, and laws in being formless. Only those who transcend these constraints can be said to grasp the "Great Dao."

On the Art of Leadership: Forced drinking makes people abstain, while tolerance inspires voluntary toasts. Those who oppress others will ultimately be oppressed; those who forgive will be forgiven. Spare a condemned man and he'll embrace death gladly; pardon a debtor and he'll repay willingly. The people emulate their ruler's virtue (De), while the ruler actually borrows the people's strength. Only those who comprehend this mutual transformation can govern multitudes.

On the Principle of Rewards: Rank and gold are universally desired, yet when distributed indiscriminately, recipients cease to value them. Thus rewards must not be given arbitrarily, nor favors bestowed excessively. Appropriate rewards may spark contention; inappropriate ones invite chaos. When rulers are humble, their rewards remain measured; when frugal, their generosity stays moderate. History's fallen dynasties all collapsed through arrogance and reckless largesse.

On Nourishing the People: The people resent not fire itself but prohibitions against it; not thieves but measures against theft. Therefore, forced relief is worse than no relief, and ostentatious care inferior to genuine indifference. Heaven's nourishing rains draw complaints; answered prayers invite slander. Rather than banning fire, extinguish the flames of desire; rather than guarding against thieves, abandon one's own greed. This is the true way to nurture the people.

The fourth volume of the Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) explains how "humaneness" (ren) nurtures all beings. It presents the Dao's operational principles through progressive layers: The Dao itself is formless and cannot sustain itself, thus requiring "Virtue" (De) as its guardian; Virtue is pure and non-active (wuwei), needing "humaneness" to manifest its function; humaneness generates all things, yet once things emerge, distinctions between safety and danger arise, requiring "righteousness" (yi) to rectify; when aiding the endangered and supporting the stable, gains and losses inevitably occur, necessitating "ritual propriety" (li) to regulate; when ritual norms encounter obstructions, "wisdom" (zhi) provides adaptability; excessive use of wisdom leads to instability, thus "integrity" (xin) is needed to anchor it. Ultimately, sincerity and trustworthiness form the fundamental law that perfects all things.

The text then correlates the Five Constant Virtues (humaneness, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, integrity) with the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water): Humaneness resembles trees nurturing all growth, belonging to Wood; righteousness is like metal—unyielding in rescuing the distressed, belonging to Metal; propriety shines as fire's illuminating rectitude, belonging to Fire; wisdom flows like water's adaptive flexibility, belonging to Water; integrity stands firm as earth's reliability, belonging to Earth. These virtues mutually reinforce and restrain each other: when humaneness is deficient, righteousness supplements it (Metal overcomes Wood); when righteousness lacks, propriety intervenes (Fire overcomes Metal), and so forth. This cycle of mutual generation and restriction mirrors the cosmic patterns of transformation.

Finally, it critiques humanity's inhumanity toward animals: creatures share familial bonds like humans—crows feeding their parents demonstrate humaneness; falcons protecting offspring embody righteousness; bee colonies maintain hierarchy through propriety; lambs kneeling to nurse show wisdom; pheasants' fidelity manifests integrity. All beings inherently possess these virtues, yet humans teach net-weaving and hunting: burning nests violates humaneness; seizing kin violates righteousness; cooking creatures violates propriety; teaching cruelty violates wisdom; terrifying all beings violates integrity. Unless such bloodlust ceases, calamity will follow—though beasts cannot speak, they surely view humans as wolves and monsters.

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) elucidates Daoist philosophy of life through allegorical narratives, presented here in thematic sections:

On Ritual Sacrifices:

The ancient practice of offering lambs and wild geese as sacrifices was originally part of traditional rites. However, enlightened Daoist practitioners understand that the mournful cries of animals upon the altar and the shrieks during hunts with hounds and falcons create emotional disturbances that unsettle celestial spirits. Forced rituals not only fail to secure blessings but may invite misfortune. Like the dragon's appearance heralding storms, the phoenix's descent portending shifts in power, or the qilin's manifestation foreshadowing national decline—ostensible auspicious signs often conceal impending crises.

On Social Harmony:

Hares grow cunning because hunters prove more devious; commoners turn deceitful when officials practice deception first. The root of rebellion lies with those in power, for how can hatred exist without discord? How can conflict arise without the lure of rewards? The truly awakened regard all things without preference or aversion—this state is called "Taihe" (the Supreme Harmony of the cosmos).

On Worldly Wisdom:

The cuttlefish's ink cloud meant for concealment betrays its location, just as the clever often suffer indignities and the eloquent invite humiliation. Impenetrable locks attract thieves, while excessive defenses create vulnerabilities for enemies. The Shu kingdom fell despite mountainous barriers, and the Jin army faltered when warhorses panicked. True wisdom lies solely in adhering to Dao, De (Virtue), and humaneness.

On Cosmic Retribution:

Praise begets praise, slander returns as slander. Noble individuals first examine themselves before instructing others; releasing grudges dissolves enmity. This operates like the "divine bow and ghostly arrows" (the invisible law of karma)—the bow releases without drawing, the arrows hit without aiming, as heaven's Dao enacts retribution through human agency.

On the Art of Giving:

Charity performed for reputation becomes unrighteous; kindness expecting gratitude ultimately receives none. Such is human nature: yielding provokes contention, pursuing drives away; voluntary gifts are scorned, while guarded treasures invite plunder.

This passage from Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) employs vivid metaphors to elucidate the Daoist understanding of natural principles and human nature.

Regarding the relationship between "righteousness" and "grace," it points out that true righteousness has no fixed form, and great grace manifests without deliberate display. When a person performs righteous deeds without conscious intent, they naturally shoulder greater responsibilities; when one bestows great kindness without seeking repayment, they receive gratitude in return.

On the art of calligraphy, it emphasizes the unity of mind and hand. Only when the mind is free of doubt, the hand moves without hesitation, and one even forgets the existence of both hand and brush can the true essence of calligraphy be grasped. Authentic calligraphy does not lie in ornate technique, forced antiquity, feigned softness, or contrived strength, but in the natural flow of spirit (Shen) and vital energy (Qi). It resembles the harmony of the Yellow Emperor’s Dao or the dignified bearing of a noble person. Those who observe the Dao (the Way) find joy in their hearts, harmony in their spirit, and seamless integration of Qi. Governance becomes clear, and the Dao operates without leaving traces.

The text uses the phoenix and the owl as metaphors: the phoenix does not perceive its own beauty, nor does the owl consider itself ugly. Emperor Yao did not regard himself as sage, nor did the Youmiao tribe see themselves as cruel. People often discern flaws in others but remain blind to their own. Thus, the wise understand true character by observing others’ words and deeds.

By reading a person’s writings, one can discern their nobility or baseness; by examining their calligraphy, their temperament; by listening to their music, their virtue; and by observing their governance, their fortune. Just as Emperor Yao’s countenance was simple, Emperor Shun’s joyful, Yu the Great’s open-hearted, Emperor Tang’s majestic, King Wen’s towering, King Wu’s resolute, and Confucius’ dignified, these traits allow people to reflect on their own wisdom or folly.

Finally, the analogy of ants: though tiny, they form organized societies. They share a single nest, climb the same heights, store grain collectively, feed on the same insect, and punish wrongdoing together. Because of this, their minds are interconnected. This subtly suggests that human society should emulate nature by fostering harmonious coexistence.

These metaphors illustrate the Daoist principles of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" and "returning to simplicity," emphasizing the importance of natural authenticity while rejecting artificial embellishment and forced striving.

This passage from the Book of Transformations elucidates the principle of universal interconnection and mutual influence among all things. When spiritual realms connect, their Qi (vital energy) becomes interconnected; when Qi connects, their physical forms follow suit. Thus when I fall ill, others may also become ill; when I feel pain, others may experience pain. In this way, resentment and betrayal find no foothold—this represents the purest form of instruction from antiquity.

Regarding the Dao of song and dance: those who can sing perform, while those who cannot appreciate; those who can dance perform, while those who cannot observe. The skillful act while the clumsy critique; the virtuous govern while the mediocre follow orders. Just as tree planters ultimately face the felling of their trees, those who employ talent must eventually witness their demise. Using official positions to ensnare talent is like harnessing horses to chariots or feeding pigs with chaff—seemingly honorable and prosperous, yet not truly possessing. Thus the truly wise do not covet empty fame, remain humble when gaining, find stability in poverty, and maintain integrity when withdrawing. Those who withdraw do not relish poverty or willingly embrace abandonment.

Consider tasting exotic foods: the first bite may resemble mustard, the next millet, then medicinal pills, until finally it seems like dried meat. Petty men thereby understand: a strong crossbow can be drawn gradually, a massive cauldron lifted slowly, water and fire adapted to progressively, and fierce beasts tamed incrementally. Rebels become transformed by me, those who insult me become friends, the unresponsive become summoned, and the unsubmissive become subdued. Hence we know: the gentlest horse proves hardest to bridle, the most gradual infiltration hardest to guard against—master this principle to become the source of all things.

On quelling conflict: attempting to stop others' disputes only provokes them; suppressing others' anger only fuels it. Those skilled at resolving conflicts prevent them from arising; those adept at dissolving anger channel it away. Thus the heart cannot be forcibly restrained—the more suppressed, the more chaotic; the people cannot be rigidly governed—the more controlled, the more resentful. Water easily churns but naturally clarifies; people readily change but naturally stabilize. The key lies in not violating the intrinsic nature of all things.

Concerning talismanic arts (Fulu): the method to subdue all things manifests through crossed arms and bent fingers as symbolic talismans. Thus coiled dragons and snakes represent scales-armored creatures' talismans; soaring birds embody feathered creatures' talismans; crouching beasts signify furred creatures' talismans; retracting turtles symbolize shelled creatures' talismans. From this we understand that folded-hand bows constitute human talismans—bow to others, and they must return courtesy; bend before others, and they must reciprocate respect. This forms the root of ritual, which expands to become the forms of all things and differentiates into myriad postures. Teaching people to dance isn't merely about the dance itself.

This passage explores the nature and manifestation of good and evil. Those who commit wicked deeds fear discovery, yet are inevitably exposed; while those who perform good works wish to be recognized, yet some virtuous acts remain unknown. Thus, the most heinous evil is that which escapes public detection, and the highest good is that which remains unrecognized by others.

Those who delight in petty favors cannot bestow widespread benevolence; those who pursue bizarre behavior cannot achieve great merit; those obsessed with chess games cannot attain profound wisdom; those chasing ornate rhetoric cannot maintain lasting fame.

Therefore, the true junzi (noble person) values only the great Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe) and maintains only De (Virtue/Power). It is precisely for this reason that their Shen (spirit) endures through myriad ages without decay.

(Note: "Utmost evil" refers to extreme wickedness; "supreme good" denotes the highest state of virtue; "board games" indicates chess and similar pastimes; "ornate rhetoric" refers to excessive pursuit of flowery language.)

Book of Transformations, Volume Five discusses the dire consequences of unfair social resource distribution. Regarding food allocation, it states: A person grows weak after one day without eating, falls ill after two days, and dies after three. For commoners, nothing is more urgent than securing food, yet rulers exploit them through multiple layers—feudal lords take a portion, scholar-officials claim another, clerks and soldiers seize their share, wars consume more, craftsmen's skills demand payment, merchants hoard supplies, while Daoist and Buddhist clergy collect alms for yet another portion. Even in bountiful years they face plunder; practicing frugality still invites exploitation. Ultimately, silkworm farmers weave silk but wear hemp cloth, while peasants grow grain yet survive on acorns. Rulers maintain this injustice through punishment, whereas true sagehood should rectify such inequity. How can those who merely feign benevolence and rigidly adhere to rituals ever redress this imbalance?

The section on witchcraft and idolatry observes: When shamans perform rituals, ghosts possess them; when idols are erected, deities inhabit them—all to enjoy offerings. Just as the Rong and Jie tribes worship mothers but not fathers, and beasts follow only their mothers, humans instinctively cry for their mothers, not fathers, when in pain—all manifestations of nursing's profound influence. Tigers and wolves merely crave meat; dragons and serpents simply thirst for blood, yet human desires know no bounds. Unfulfilled, they fight; denied, they rebel, ultimately inciting universal resentment. The way of sustenance is no trivial matter.

The analogy of horse-rearing and child-rearing illustrates: Though the owner keeps horses, the groom who feeds them grows closest; though the mother bears children, the wet-nurse becomes more beloved. Ruler and subject, inherently distant, collude through emoluments, while a child's affection for its birth mother wanes compared to the wet-nurse. Inferior horses are naturally dull; infants are innately innocent—yet from such beginnings emerge cunning stratagems, clear-cut loves and hates, opposing factions, ultimately fermenting strife and treachery.

The escalation of exploitation unfolds thus: When rulers demand raw silk, officials extort spun thread; when rulers require thread, officials seize finished cords. Oppression intensifies step by step—from deception to flogging, theft to murder, culminating in brutal torture. Deception isn't the people's choice but stems from extortionate taxation; killing isn't their intent but taught through harsh punishments. Like someone with burning eyebrows plunging into water—knowing death inevitable yet seeking respite—or facing a tiger's jaws leaping off a cliff—merely choosing the lesser agony between two horrors.

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) profoundly reveals humanity's greed for food and the social problems it engenders.

On Extravagance:

The truly cultivated person neither wishes others to know of their hunger (considering it shameful) nor boasts of being full (considering it disgraceful). This very mindset breeds resentment in others. Food itself is blameless, yet people serve it on golden plates and jade bowls (symbolizing excessive ornamentation), accompany meals with music (indicating wastefulness), spread luxurious tablecloths (pursuing sensory stimulation), and exhaust rare delicacies (representing reckless extravagance). Being picky about flavors stirs anger; distinguishing ingredients by worth provokes conflict. Desires know no bounds—the poor always feel they don't have enough, while the rich always want better. This mentality breeds ostentation and even ignites wars. Were food distributed fairly, peace would reign naturally.

The Metaphor of Gnawing Charred Bones:

Like those who chew burnt bones until their lips ulcerate yet feel no pain, or drink strong liquor until their guts burn yet taste no bitterness—those obsessed with gluttony forget suffering, and the desperately hungry disregard life itself. When people become numb to pain, they'll commit any deceit; when they scorn life, they'll dare any evil. If rulers indulge their appetites while ignoring the people's hunger, public resentment mirrors their own. Those who grasp this truth—how could they fail to govern well?

The Delusion of Food:

Some burst from overeating, some choke from greed, some die brawling over meals—the world laughs at them. Yet they don't realize officials chase salaries (essentially for food) and merchants pursue wealth (also for sustenance). Officials perish from arrogance and slander, merchants drown crossing treacherous seas—all blind to their underlying food obsession, blaming heaven instead. Such is the tragedy of appetite's blindness.

Desire as Battlefield:

Mere thoughts of sour or salty tastes make mouths water; lavish feasts trigger involuntary swallowing. The starving imagine devouring oxen, the parched dream of drinking oceans. Desires assail us like bandits; we resist them like war. In this "battle," no silks or jewels count as true wealth. Through vivid metaphors, the text illustrates how food cravings distort human nature and spark social strife—reminding rulers especially to lead by example, understanding the profound truth that "food is the people's heaven."

The Book of Transformations (Huashu) employs vivid metaphors to reveal the fundamental principles governing societal dynamics.

Regarding the ruler-subject relationship: Ornate crowns, banners, metal-stone instruments, and palace towers mean nothing to starving people. When the populace suffers prolonged hunger and hardship, who would believe empty talk of humaneness and righteousness? How could harsh laws alone inspire genuine fear?

The fable of catching sparrows with glue-tipped rods illustrates how tyrannical rule invites rebellion (as the yellow sparrows sound alarms), while sharing food earns trust (like crows delivering messages). If snakes can form partnerships and fierce beasts be tamed, even foreign tribes can be transformed—how much more so with fellow humans?

The contrasting fish-raising methods of Geng and Xin demonstrate conditioned behavior: regular feeding trains fish to leap at approaching footsteps. This shows how habits alter innate nature, as the labels "Tangtang" and "Cece" become the fish's identities.

The tipping point of societal collapse: Extreme hunger drives people to eat anything—rotten food or even foot scum—just as extreme oppression drives desperate actions. Herein lies the watershed between order and chaos.

The mutual suspicion between humans and vermin: People resent rats and sparrows for stealing, while these creatures stay wary of human harm. Similarly, rulers control subjects through food rations, and the hungry deceive to survive—this vicious cycle stems from survival instincts. Denying people clothing and food is like carving flesh from their bodies, inevitably provoking revolt.

Finally, the principle of animal domestication: Oxen, horses, dogs and falcons obey for food; macaques and parrots perform when hungry. This implies that rulers relying solely on material control will eventually face backlash. The text profoundly exposes the social law that "food is the people's heaven"—survival needs fundamentally shape human behavior and political fortunes.

This passage elucidates the fundamental influence of "sustenance" (food and survival resources) on human society and the natural world. Through vivid analogies, the author demonstrates how food can compel creatures to act against their innate nature and shape the moral order of human communities.

For instance, food can be used to train kites to sing, incite ants to fight each other, lure fish to bite hooks, tempt tigers into traps, or cause wild geese to crash into nets—it can even make enemy states turn against themselves. Celestial and earthly deities manifest their presence when offered sacrifices, noble scholars may bend their knees for sustenance, and foreign tribes submit because of it. This reveals sustenance's formidable motivating power.

From the Son of Heaven to commoners, all living beings are governed by food. If rulers wear coarse cloth and eat wild vegetables, the people will naturally enjoy warmth and satiety. Those who skillfully apply this principle can achieve the sage-king's way of governing through Wuwei (non-action).

The text particularly notes: a hunting mother beast shares food with her cubs, yet a trapped mother cannot attend to her young. While a ruler's annual food expenses may not exceed a million, conferring lands and bestowing riches drains immeasurable wealth. This resembles sucking the blood and flesh of the people—while pleasure goes to ministers, resentment concentrates upon the sovereign.

The author laments: during famine, people fight over rotting corpses; when trapped, they consume their kin's flesh—acts even jackals and wolves would find unbearable. Without sustenance, rulers lose humaneness (Ren), ministers forfeit righteousness (Yi), scholars abandon propriety (Li), commoners lack wisdom (Zhi), and all things lose integrity (Xin). Thus sustenance forms the foundational root of the Five Constant Virtues (Ren, Yi, Li, Zhi, Xin).

Ultimately, the text emphasizes: teaching goodness depends on food, yet wickedness also stems from it. Though sustenance appears humble, its function is supremely noble; its name may seem insignificant, yet its transformative power is immense—truly a treasure beyond price. This reveals how material foundations decisively shape moral cultivation.

The fifth volume of the Book of Transformations (Huashu) primarily explores the principles underlying all transformations in existence. This classic work by Five Dynasties Daoist master Tan Qiao reveals through observations of natural phenomena and social changes that "transformation" (hua) constitutes the fundamental law of the cosmos. The text employs simple analogies to illustrate profound philosophical truths—using ice transforming into water and water into vapor to demonstrate material metamorphosis, or silkworms becoming moths to show biological transmutation. Tan Qiao argues that not only the material world undergoes change, but human society and moral concepts also exist in perpetual flux. He particularly emphasizes how the Dao (cosmic principle) governs all these transformations, and that practitioners should align themselves with this law of change. Maintaining the style of the previous four volumes, the fifth book continues using observable transformations in everyday phenomena to guide readers toward comprehending deeper cosmic truths.

The sixth volume of The Book of Transformation discusses how the principle of frugality leads to a peaceful and prosperous age.

Water and fire are daily necessities, yet improper use can lead to ruin—this stems from a lack of moderation. Food and drink sustain life, but excess consumption harms health. When rituals become extravagant and indulgence in pleasure goes unchecked, it is like water flowing away, never to return. To remedy this, the best approach is to uphold frugality. Frugality ensures fair distribution of resources, and when resources are shared justly, benevolence (Ren) and righteousness (Yi) naturally arise. When these virtues flourish, rites and music (Li-Yue) become orderly; when rites and music are in harmony, the people will not complain; when the people are content, the spirits (Shen) will not be angered. This is the foundation of a peaceful age.

On the principle of balance: A person clothed in coarse cloth does not feel cold, but forcing silk upon them makes them more sensitive to chill. One who eats wild herbs does not feel hunger, yet insisting on fine grains makes them more prone to starvation. Thus, rulers must consider how their actions affect the people. The people’s psychology is subtle: seeing others carry stones makes one feel lighter with dirt on their back; seeing others carry dirt makes one content with straw. Hunger and cold have no fixed standard, nor do weight and lightness have absolute measures—what matters is mutual comparison. If rulers value indulgence, the people will grow insatiable; if rulers live simply, the people will naturally find contentment. Only those who practice frugality can truly become the standard of balance for the people.

The way of ritual (Li) lies in this: Grand ceremonies are inferior to plain frugality, elaborate rites are less meaningful than simple sincerity. Fine robes bring less ease than plain cloth; gilded splendor is less valuable than quiet detachment. The more one chases wealth and status, the less joy they find; the higher one climbs, the less beauty they see; the more rewards they crave, the less satisfied they become; the tighter they cling to desire, the less dignity they possess. Gold and jade symbolize wealth, rank and title signify nobility—yet water tastes sweetest when thirsty, food is most delicious when hungry. Only through frugality can one truly understand these truths.

Consider the symbolism of food: Watching others dine on delicacies makes beef seem meager; seeing others wear royal crowns makes an ordinary hat feel lacking. This discontent has roots—extravagance has its origins. When rulers favor luxury, ministers feel deprived; when ministers indulge, scholars grow dissatisfied; when scholars spend lavishly, the people suffer want; when all people chase excess, the world’s resources fall short. The world’s goods are finite: if rulers take one-tenth, the people take one-tenth; if rulers take half, so do the people; if rulers claim all, the people demand the same. In this way, it is as though the wealth of ten households is concentrated in one, the riches of ten nations gathered in one, and all under heaven’s resources amassed for a single ruler.

How could the world be without flaws?

On the true nature of common people:

A husband fond of wine plunges his wife into poverty; a son obsessed with falconry brings ruin to his household. Keeping one extra servant—three bowls of rice per day—amounts to over a thousand bowls annually. Calculated this way, such provisions could sustain a thousand soldiers. If rulers persist in such consumption yearly, it inevitably exhausts the people's strength and breeds discontent. The root problem lies in unchecked accumulation without restraint. When emperors ride ox-drawn carts, commoners feel ashamed to walk; when rulers dwell in earthen-stepped palaces, people blush at living in plain houses. Extravagance must be nipped in the bud, teaching frugality through example. Seeing others unashamed in hemp garments makes one content with coarse cloth; observing people dining with crude utensils brings joy in earthenware. This reveals the people's genuine disposition.

On the reputation of frugality:

The world considers thrift disgraceful, unaware it embodies pure simplicity. Wasting nothing oneself, exploiting nothing from others—plowing one's fields, feeding oneself; raising silkworms, weaving clothes—keeping wife and children warm, servants unfamished. Thus none bear resentment, nor deities impose punishment. One household practicing thrift prospers; a ruler practicing it enriches the realm.

On rulers and the ruled:

Though differing in status, rulers and subjects share identical desires. When lords delight in hunting, people emulate them; when kings indulge in sensual pleasures, masses follow suit; when sovereigns treasure jewels, commoners covet wealth; when rulers savor delicacies, subjects crave gluttony. Though titles differ, cravings align. The hemp-clad envy scholars' hairpins; the pinned aspire to officials' swords; the sword-bearers yearn for royal crowns. Thus positioned where millions gaze upward, rulers must reflect deeply. Moreover, gold-adorned chariots drain public coffers; towering pavilions exhaust labor—this stockpiles grievances and fuels extravagance. Grain reserves sustain a year, while squandering treasures wastes a day—how could states avoid impoverishment? Hence frugality proves essential.

On the way of cultivation:

Would anyone dare mock an infant offering folded-hand greetings while nursing? Does this require splendid robes? Would anyone bully a shepherd bowing in courtesy? Does this demand harsh punishments? Where host and guest respect each other, coarse fare becomes a feast—why need bells and drums? Where women embody gentleness, thornwood hairpins and linen skirts uphold virtue—why require silks? Yet rulers...

Rulers construct moats to defend against external threats, arm themselves with weapons to guard their cities, stockpile grain and cloth to sustain the people, and erect barriers to isolate dangers. This is because one must be vigilant toward the populace while also protecting oneself. Those who master the essence of frugality will find the people naturally honest; by practicing the Dao (the Way) of frugality, they themselves will harbor no suspicions. Those who understand frugality may become teachers to sage-kings.

Frugality is the key to governing all things. Restraining hearing nurtures a mind of emptiness and stillness; restraining vision preserves the spirit (Shen); restraining speech conserves vital energy (Qi); restraining desires brings wealth; restraining official duties maintains dignity; restraining access through gates prevents theft; limiting guards prevents rebellion; controlling official appointments eliminates deceit; moderating the number of concubines preserves longevity; and disciplining thoughts liberates one from the cycle of life and death. Thus, frugality is indeed the fundamental principle for mastering all things.

Rulers all know that grasping the root "One" can bring order to the world, yet they do not understand what the true "One" is. All principles have their "One": Benevolence has its root, righteousness has its root, propriety has its root, wisdom has its root, and trustworthiness has its root. The "One" unifies the Five Constant Virtues, and the Five Constant Virtues take the "One" as their foundation. Those who master this "One" can govern the world. This principle appears simple yet originates from the utmost simplicity; its words seem profound yet are naturally mysterious. Thus, people often lose sight of its essence and become confused by its subtleties. In truth, the most crucial aspect of cultivating the practice of "holding to the One" is frugality. Through the restraint of frugality, benevolence will not overflow, righteousness will not become chaotic, propriety will not grow extravagant, wisdom will not turn deceitful, and trustworthiness will not waver. With the heart thus anchored and actions rooted in principle, the people will have something to rely upon.

In the era of the Three Sovereigns, when rulers were frugal, their ministers were content; when ministers were frugal, the scholars were content; when scholars were frugal, the common people were content; and when the common people were frugal, the world was content. A content world knows no greed for wealth, no struggle for fame, no crime or deception, no hypocrisy or flattery. Thus, ritual and righteousness naturally flourished, laws and governance naturally brought peace, cities naturally remained tranquil, weapons naturally fell into disuse, and wanderers naturally returned to farming. This is how the teachings of the Three Sovereigns prevailed.

The extravagant exhaust three years' provisions in one, while the frugal stretch one year's provisions over three. The most extravagant are never satisfied, while the most frugal always have surplus. The extravagant, though wealthy, feel perpetually lacking; the frugal, though modest, always have abundance. The extravagant are inwardly impoverished, while the frugal are inwardly rich.

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) primarily discusses the principles of advocating frugality and tranquility, employing contrasting methods to reveal the different outcomes between extravagance and thrift.

Regarding the contrast between extravagance and frugality: Those who live extravagantly tend to seek closeness with others, thus easily making mistakes; those who live frugally understand the importance of maintaining distance, thereby committing fewer errors. The extravagant often bring disgrace when serving their rulers, while the frugal preserve their positions and emoluments. Extravagance breeds sorrow, whereas frugality brings blessings. Those who steadfastly uphold the Dao of frugality can become capable rulers of the world.

An example with bird-keeping illustrates this: When a yellow sparrow is kept in an ornate cage with exquisite food, it becomes unhappy. Similarly, when the people are governed through rituals, music, rewards, and punishments, they find no peace. The true way of governance lies in achieving natural stability without deliberate pursuit, attaining compliance without forceful demands, and realizing transformation without overt indoctrination.

On governing the state: Reduce the construction of pavilions and towers, and the people will have surplus labor power; lessen the hoarding of treasures, and the people will have abundant wealth; decrease military campaigns, and the people will have ample time. What seems like giving nothing to the people is, in fact, granting them the most essential; what appears as asking nothing from them is, in reality, winning their hearts. Just as the sea god does not abandon the ocean when losing fish, a ruler does not forsake the state when losing horses.

On rituals: True rituals should originate from the Dao, yet rulers often fail to grasp this. When Confucian scholars retreat to the mountains and forests, they honor their teachers, cherish friendships, and delve into rituals and music. But upon encountering lavish carriages and hearing the sounds of bells and drums, they panic like deer, grow dull as pigs, become intoxicated as if drunk, or flounder as if drowning—utterly forgetting the root of the Dao. If you call a bow "arc" or a horse "steed," the people will not understand. In governance, problems often arise from excess rather than simplicity; the confusion of rituals lies in grandiosity rather than details. Only those who emulate frugality can grasp the essence of statecraft.

On tranquility: The extravagant delight in change, while the frugal prefer stillness; the extravagant pursue difficulty and complexity, while the frugal favor simplicity; the extravagant indulge in pleasures, while the frugal find contentment in serenity. Those who use one vessel without breaking it for a lifetime or wear one fur coat for a decade without damage can draw close to the people, manage resources, and wield authority—because they understand the Dao of tranquility.

Finally, it is pointed out: If the Five Constant Virtues of Confucianism (humanity, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness) are not rooted in frugality, they become corrupted—humanity turns inhumane, righteousness unrighteous, propriety improper, wisdom unwise, and faithfulness faithless. Thus, it is essential to recognize frugality as the foundation of the Five Constant Virtues, while the virtues are its manifestations. True ritual propriety should be continuously enriched and perfected.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "frugality" (俭) and "diminishment" (损). The core teaching reveals that the nature of the Dao (cosmic principle) operates through reduction to achieve increase—what appears as loss ultimately brings true gain. When ritual becomes excessive, it descends into indulgence; when frugality goes to extremes, it appears crude. Yet since ancient times, no one has ever perished from excessive frugality.

Those who genuinely understand humility naturally command respect; those who truly embody frugality are naturally valued. Forced humility cannot produce authentic modesty, nor can imposed frugality yield true simplicity. The key lies in leaders exemplifying virtue—when I am humble, the people become humble; when I am frugal, the people become frugal. This principle's essence resides in self-cultivation rather than demanding it of others. Those who fail to comprehend this and enforce such virtues through compulsion remain trapped in delusion.

(Note: This excerpt concludes Chapter 6 of the Hua Shu [Book of Transformations], embodying the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action [Wuwei]" and the dialectical thinking that "the Dao moves by returning." It demonstrates how genuine attainment often comes through seemingly opposite approaches.)