In the fifteenth year after he came to the throne, the Yellow Emperor delighted that all under heaven looked up to him. He nourished his life, pleased his ears and eyes, and indulged his nose and mouth, until his flesh was parched and his complexion dark and sallow, and his five emotions were dulled and confused. For another fifteen years he worried that the world was not well governed; he exhausted his hearing and sight, pushed his wisdom and strength to the limit, and labored for the common people, until his flesh was parched and his complexion dark and sallow, and his five emotions were dulled and confused. The Yellow Emperor then sighed deeply and said: “My error is excessive indeed. Nurturing my own self brings such trouble, and governing the myriad things brings such trouble.” Thereupon he set aside the countless affairs of state, left his palace chambers, dismissed his attendants, removed the hanging bells, reduced the dishes from his kitchen, and withdrew to live at leisure in a lodge in the great courtyard, fasting his mind and disciplining his body; for three months he did not personally attend to affairs of government. He fell asleep during the day and dreamed that he journeyed to the land of the Huaxu clan. The land of the Huaxu clan lies west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, who knows how many thousands of myriads of li from the state of Qi. It cannot be reached by boat or carriage or on foot; only the spirit can journey there. That land has no rulers or elders; all simply follows what is so of itself. Its people have no cravings or desires; all simply follows what is so of itself. They do not know to delight in life or to hate death, so none of them die young. They do not know to hold themselves dear or to hold things at a distance, so they have neither love nor hatred. They do not know to turn their backs or to go against, nor to face toward or to comply, so they have neither gain nor harm. There is nothing they cherish and nothing they fear. They enter water and do not drown; they enter fire and are not burned. Hacked or whipped, they feel no wound or pain; pricked or scratched, they feel no ache or itch. They ride on empty air as if treading on solid ground, and sleep on the void as if lying on a bed. Clouds and mists do not obstruct their sight, thunder does not disturb their hearing, beauty and ugliness do not trouble their hearts, mountains and valleys do not trip their steps; they move by spirit alone. When the Yellow Emperor awoke, he was joyful and content with himself. He summoned Tianlao, Limu, and Taishan Ji and told them: “I lived at leisure for three months, fasting my mind and disciplining my body, pondering the way to nourish the self and govern things, but I did not find the method. Exhausted, I fell asleep, and this is what I dreamed. Now I know that the Ultimate Tao cannot be sought through feeling. I know it, I have attained it, but I cannot tell it to you!” For another twenty-eight years the world was in great order, almost like the land of the Huaxu clan, and then the emperor ascended afar. The common people wailed for him, and did not cease for more than two hundred years.
Mount Guye lies on an island amid the sea and the rivers. On the mountain there is a divine being who breathes the wind and drinks the dew and does not eat the five grains. Her heart is like a deep spring; her form is like that of a maiden. She neither clings nor loves, yet immortals and sages serve as her ministers. She neither intimidates nor grows angry, yet the honest and diligent serve as her envoys. She neither bestows nor grants favors, yet things are sufficient of themselves. She neither gathers nor hoards, yet she herself is never in want. Yin and yang are always in harmony, the sun and moon always bright, the four seasons always as they should be, wind and rain always evenly balanced, births and nurture always timely, the year's harvest always abundant. The land suffers no plagues, people suffer no early deaths or foul diseases, things suffer no blight, and ghosts make no uncanny sounds.
Liezi took Old Master Shang as his teacher and Bogaozi as his friend. Having mastered the ways of these two, he rode home on the wind. Master Yin heard of it and came to live with Liezi. For several months he did not go home to see his family. Whenever there was an opportunity he asked to be taught the art; ten times he went back to ask, and ten times he was not told. Master Yin grew resentful and asked leave to go, and Liezi said nothing to stop him. Master Yin withdrew. After several months, unable to let the matter rest, he came back to follow him again. Liezi said: “Why do you come and go so often?” Master Yin said: “Earlier I, Zhangdai, made a request of you, and you would not tell me, so I felt resentment toward you. Now it has passed away, and so I have come again.” Liezi said: “Earlier I took you for a man of understanding; are you now as petty as this? Sit down! I will tell you what I learned from my master. After I began serving my master and befriending that man, at the end of three years my heart did not dare to think of right and wrong, and my mouth did not dare to speak of benefit and harm; only then did my master give me a single glance. After five years my heart again thought of right and wrong, and my mouth again spoke of benefit and harm; only then did my master for the first time relax his face and smile. After seven years, I let my heart think whatever it would, and there was no longer any right or wrong; I let my mouth say whatever it would, and there was no longer any benefit or harm; only then did my master for the first time draw me over to sit beside him on his mat. After nine years, I let my heart think without restraint and my mouth speak without restraint, and I no longer knew whether right and wrong, benefit and harm were mine, nor whether they were another's; nor did I know that my master was my teacher and that man was my friend. Inside and outside had merged into one. After that, my eyes were like my ears, my ears like my nose, my nose like my mouth; there was nothing that was not the same. My heart was concentrated and my body released; my bones and flesh all melted away. I did not feel what my body leaned on or what my feet trod on. I drifted east and west with the wind, like a leaf from a tree or a dry husk. In the end I did not know whether the wind was riding me or I was riding the wind. Now you have been at your teacher's gate for not even a full season, and already you have been resentful two or three times. With such a fragment of a body, the air will not hold you up; with one such joint, the earth will not bear you. How could you hope to tread the void and ride the wind?” Master Yin was deeply ashamed; he held his breath for a long time and did not dare to speak again.
Liezi asked Guanyin, the Keeper of the Pass: “The Ultimate Man walks underwater without suffocating, treads on fire without being burned, and walks high above the myriad things without trembling. May I ask how he comes to this?” The Keeper of the Pass said: “It is by guarding the pure qi; it is not a matter of knowledge, skill, resolve, or daring. Sit down, and I will tell you. Whatever has appearance, image, sound, and color is a thing. How could one thing be far removed from another? What is there in it that could lead it to precede the others? It is only color. But things arise from the formless and come to rest in what is not transformed. How could one who has grasped this and fathomed it to the end be stopped by things? He will dwell within the measure that does not overflow, hide within the thread that has no beginning, and roam where the myriad things end and begin. He unifies his nature, nourishes his qi, and holds in his virtue, so as to communicate with that from which things arise. For one who is like this, his heavenly endowment is guarded whole, and his spirit has no crack; how could things enter him? When a drunken man falls from a carriage, though he may be hurt, he does not die. His bones and joints are the same as other men's, yet he meets harm differently from them, because his spirit is whole. He did not know he was riding, and he does not know he has fallen. Thoughts of death and life, alarm and fear, do not enter his breast, and so he collides with things without flinching. If he can be kept whole like this by wine, how much more one who is kept whole by heaven! The sage hides himself in heaven, and so nothing can harm him.”
Lie Yukou was showing his archery to Bohun Wuren. He drew the bow to the full and had a cup of water set on his elbow. He let fly; a second arrow was on its way before the first had struck, and a third was notched before the second landed. All the while he stood as still as a statue. Bohun Wuren said: “This is the archery of one who shoots, not the archery of one who does not shoot. Let me climb a high mountain with you, stand on a perilous rock, and look down into an abyss of a hundred ren; could you shoot then?” So Wuren climbed a high mountain, stood on a perilous rock, and looked down into an abyss of a hundred ren. He backed up until two-fifths of his feet hung out over the edge, and then bowed to Yukou, inviting him to come forward. Yukou lay flat on the ground, sweat running down to his heels. Bohun Wuren said: “The Ultimate Man peers up into the blue sky above and plunges down into the Yellow Springs below; he ranges freely to the eight extremities, and his spirit and qi do not change. Now you are trembling and your eyes are dazzled with fear. You are in danger in your inner self!”
The Fan family had a son named Zihua who was skilled at cultivating a private reputation, and the whole state submitted to him. He enjoyed the favor of the ruler of Jin, and though he held no office, he ranked above the three chief ministers. Whomever his eye singled out, the state of Jin gave rank; whomever his mouth singled out for disparagement, the state of Jin dismissed. Those who frequented his courtyard equaled those at court. Zihua made his retainers attack one another, the clever against the dull, the strong bullying the weak. Even if someone was injured or broken before his eyes, he paid it no mind. Day and night he made this his sport and amusement, and it had almost become a custom throughout the state. Hesheng and Zibo, honored guests of the Fan family, went out traveling, passed beyond the outskirts, and spent the night at the house of an old farmer, Shangqiu Kai. In the middle of the night, Hesheng and Zibo talked together about Zihua's fame and power: he could make the living die and the dead live, the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu Kai, who had long been in straits from hunger and cold, crept under the north window and listened. So he borrowed provisions, shouldered a basket, and went to Zihua's gate. Zihua's followers were all from great families, dressed in white silk and riding in carriages, strolling with haughty looks. When they saw that Shangqiu Kai was old and feeble, his face dark and weathered, and his clothes and cap in disorder, every one of them looked down on him. Soon they were mocking and insulting him, tricking and deceiving him, shoving, jostling, and striking him; there was nothing they did not do. Shangqiu Kai never showed any sign of anger, until the retainers had exhausted their tricks and grown tired of their jests. Then they climbed a high terrace together with Shangqiu Kai, and one of them said carelessly among the crowd: “Whoever can throw himself down from here will be rewarded with a hundred pieces of gold.” Everyone vied to answer. Shangqiu Kai believed it was true and threw himself down first; his body was like a flying bird, and he floated down to the ground without bruising a bone or muscle. The Fan faction thought it was chance and did not yet think it strange. So they pointed to a deep pool at a bend of the river and said: “There is a precious pearl down there; you can get it by diving.” Again Shangqiu Kai went and dived for it, and when he came out he had indeed found a pearl. Only then did they all begin to wonder, and Zihua for the first time ordered that he be given a place among those who ate meat and wore silk. Shortly afterward a great fire broke out in the Fan family storehouse. Zihua said: “If you can go into the fire and fetch out the brocades, I will reward you according to how much you bring out.” Shangqiu Kai went without any sign of difficulty, going into the fire and back again; the dust did not soil him and his body was not scorched. The Fan faction thought he had the Tao, and together they apologized to him, saying: “We did not know you had the Tao, and we deceived you; we did not know you were a divine being, and we insulted you. You must think us fools, deaf and blind. May we ask what your Tao is?” Shangqiu Kai said: “I have no Tao. Even my own heart does not know how it came about. Still, there is one thing I can try to tell you. When your two guests lodged at my house, I heard them praise the power of the Fan family, that it could make the living die and the dead live, the rich poor and the poor rich. I believed it with no second thought, so I did not think the way too far to come. When I came, I took everything your party said to be true. My only fear was that my belief might not be complete and my action not thorough enough. I did not know where my body was placed, nor where benefit and harm lay. My heart was simply one, and nothing resisted me—that is all there was to it. Now for the first time I know that your party deceived me. Inside I harbor suspicion and doubt, outside I watch and listen with care. Looking back on my good fortune in not being burned or drowned before, I burn inside with dread and shake with fear. How could I ever go near water or fire again?” From then on, when the Fan followers met a beggar or a horse doctor on the road, they did not dare insult him but would always get down from their carriages and bow to him. Zai Wo heard of this and told Zhongni. Zhongni said: “Do you not understand? A person of perfect sincerity can move things. He can shake heaven and earth, move ghosts and spirits, and range across the six directions with nothing to oppose him—how much more than merely treading on danger and entering water and fire! Shangqiu Kai believed in falsehoods and still nothing opposed him; how much more when both sides are sincere! Remember this, my young ones!”
Under the chief herdsman of King Xuan of Zhou there was a laborer named Liang Yang who was able to raise wild birds and beasts. He fed them within his garden and courtyard, and even tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys all became gentle and tame. Males and females mated before him and multiplied into flocks and herds; different species lived together without attacking or devouring one another. The king feared that his art would die with him, and ordered Mao Qiuyuan to learn it from him. Liang Yang said: “I, Yang, am a lowly laborer; what art could I tell you? But I fear the king will say I have hidden something from you, so let me say a word about my method of raising tigers. Everything that has blood and qi is by nature pleased when it is humored and angered when it is crossed. But pleasure and anger do not arise without cause; they are all provoked by being crossed. When feeding a tiger, I do not dare give it live animals, for fear of the rage it will feel in killing them; I do not dare give it whole animals, for fear of the rage it will feel in tearing them apart. I keep track of when it is hungry and when it is full, and so understand its angry heart. The tiger is of a different kind from man, yet it fawns on the one who feeds it, because it is humored; so when it kills, it is because it has been crossed. How then would I dare cross it and make it angry? But neither do I humor it to make it pleased. For pleasure, when it turns, must become anger, and anger, when it turns, usually becomes pleasure; neither is the mean. Now my heart neither crosses nor humors them, and so the birds and beasts look upon me as one of their own kind. Thus those that roam my garden do not long for tall forests and wide marshes, and those that sleep in my courtyard do not wish for deep mountains and hidden valleys. It is the principle of things that makes it so.”
Yan Hui asked Zhongni: “I once crossed the deep pool called Shangshen, and the ferryman handled his boat like a god. I asked him, ‘Can handling a boat be learned?’ He said, ‘It can. Those who can swim can be taught; good swimmers pick it up quickly. As for divers, they may never have seen a boat, and yet they handle it at once.’ I asked him what he meant, but he would not tell me. May I ask what he meant?” Zhongni said: “Ah, Hui! You and I have long toyed with the outward form of this without reaching its substance—and do you think we have really grasped the Tao? That those who can swim can be taught is because they make light of the water. That good swimmers pick it up quickly is because they forget the water. As for divers who may never have seen a boat and yet handle it at once, they see the deep pool as a hill, and the capsizing of a boat as a cart slipping backward. Capsizing and slipping backward, all the myriad things may lay themselves out before them, yet none can enter their inner dwelling. Where could they go and not be at ease? One who plays for tiles is skillful; one who plays for buckles is nervous; one who plays for gold is flustered. His skill is the same, but he has something he cares about, and so he gives weight to what is outside. All who give weight to what is outside become clumsy within.”
Confucius was sightseeing at Lüliang, where the waterfall hangs down thirty ren and the foaming current runs for thirty li, a place where even giant turtles, alligators, fish, and turtles cannot swim. He saw a man swimming there, and thinking he was someone in distress who wished to die, he sent his disciples along the bank to pull him out. After several hundred paces the man came out, and with his hair hanging loose he walked along singing and strolled at the foot of the embankment. Confucius followed him and asked: “The waterfall at Lüliang hangs down thirty ren and the foaming current runs thirty li; even giant turtles, alligators, fish, and turtles cannot swim in it. Just now I saw you going into it, and thinking you were in distress and wished to die, I sent my disciples along the bank to pull you out. When you came out with your hair hanging loose, walking and singing, I thought you were a ghost. But looking closely, you are a man. May I ask whether there is a way of treading water?” He said: “No, I have no way. I began with what was native to me, grew up with my nature, and was completed by destiny. I go in with the swirling inflow and come out with the welling outflow. I follow the way of the water and do nothing of my own—this is how I tread it.” Confucius said: “What do you mean by beginning with what was native to you, growing up with your nature, and being completed by destiny?” He said: “I was born on the hills and am at ease on the hills—that is what was native to me. I grew up by the water and am at ease in the water—that is my nature. I do not know why I do it, yet I do it—that is destiny.”
Zhongni was on his way to Chu. Coming out of a forest, he saw a hunchback catching cicadas with a pole, as easily as if he were picking them up by hand. Zhongni said: “How skillful you are! Is there a way to it?” He said: “I have a way. For five or six months I practice balancing two pellets on top of each other at the end of the pole; if they do not fall, I miss only a few cicadas. If I can balance three without their falling, I miss only one in ten. If I can balance five without their falling, it is like picking them up by hand. I hold my body like a stump and my arm like the branch of a withered tree. Vast as heaven and earth are, many as the myriad things are, I know only the wings of the cicada. I do not turn or waver; I would not trade the wings of a cicada for all the myriad things. How could I fail to get them?” Confucius turned to his disciples and said: “He does not divide his will, and so he becomes like one possessed by the spirits—does that not describe this hunchbacked old man?” The old man said: “You, a fellow in a scholar's wide-sleeved robe, what business do you have asking about this? Cultivate what you yourself are about, and only then speak of what is above it.”
There was a man by the sea who loved seagulls. Every morning he went to the seashore and played with the gulls, and the gulls that came to him numbered in the hundreds and more. His father said: “I hear the gulls all play with you. Bring me some, so I can play with them.” The next day he went to the seashore, and the gulls danced in the air and would not come down. Therefore it is said: the utmost speech is to do away with speech; the utmost action is non-action. What ordinary wisdom knows is shallow indeed.
Zhao Xiangzi led a hundred thousand followers to hunt in Zhongshan. They trampled the grass and set fire to the forest, and the blaze lit up a hundred li. A man came out from a stone cliff and moved up and down with the smoke and embers. Everyone said he was a ghost. When the fire had passed, he walked out slowly, as if he had gone through nothing at all. Xiangzi found this strange and detained him. Looking him over at leisure, in form, color, and his seven apertures he was a man; in breath and voice he was a man. Xiangzi asked: “By what way do you dwell in stone? By what way do you enter fire?” The man said: “What thing is it you call stone? What thing is it you call fire?” Xiangzi said: “What you came out of just now was stone; what you passed through just now was fire.” The man said: “I did not know.” Marquis Wen of Wei heard of this and asked Zixia: “What sort of man is he?” Zixia said: “From what I, Shang, have heard from the Master, one who is in harmony is completely one with things, and nothing can harm or obstruct him. To roam through metal and stone and tread through water and fire—all this he can do.” The marquis said: “Why don't you do it, sir?” Zixia said: “To hollow out the heart and discard knowledge is something I, Shang, cannot yet do. Nevertheless, I have the leisure to try to talk about it.” The marquis said: “Why doesn't the Master do it?” Zixia said: “The Master is one who can do it and is able not to do it.” The marquis was greatly pleased.
A shaman with divine powers came from Qi and settled in Zheng; his name was Ji Xian. He knew people's life and death, survival and ruin, fortune and misfortune, long life and early death, and could predict them to the year, the month, the ten-day week, and the day, as if he were a god. When the people of Zheng saw him, they all fled from him. Liezi saw him and was intoxicated in his heart. He went back and told Huqiuzi: “At first I thought your Tao, master, was the ultimate; now I know there is something even more ultimate.” Huzi said: “I have taught you only its outward form and not yet its substance, and you think this is attaining the Tao? With many hens and no rooster, how can there be eggs? You set your Tao against the world and are bound to show yourself; that is why others can read your face. Try bringing him here, and let me show myself to him.” The next day Liezi came with him to see Huzi. When he came out he said to Liezi: “Alas! Your master is going to die; he will not live; he won't last more than ten days. I saw something strange in him; I saw wet ashes.” Liezi went in, weeping until the front of his robe was soaked, and told Huzi. Huzi said: “Just now I showed him the pattern of earth, still and unmoving, neither stirring nor stopping. He probably saw me blocking the springs of my virtue. Try bringing him again!” The next day he again came with him to see Huzi. When he came out he said to Liezi: “How fortunate that your master met me! He is getting better. The ashes have life in them; I saw the blocked springs begin to move.” Liezi went in and told Huzi. Huzi said: “Just now I showed him heaven and earth, where name and substance do not enter, and the impulse issued from my heels. This is the blocked springs beginning to move. He probably saw the springs of my goodness. Try bringing him again!” The next day he again came with him to see Huzi. When he came out he said to Liezi: “Your master is not steady; I can't read his face. Let him steady himself, and I will read him again.” Liezi went in and told Huzi. Huzi said: “Just now I showed him the Great Void where nothing wins out. He probably saw the springs of my balanced qi. The swirl where a whale circles makes a deep pool; the swirl of still water makes a deep pool; the swirl of flowing water makes a deep pool; the swirl of gushing water makes a deep pool; the swirl of water falling from above makes a deep pool; the swirl of water spurting from the side makes a deep pool; the swirl of water dammed up makes a deep pool; the swirl of water that branches off and returns makes a deep pool; the swirl of water that divides from one source makes a deep pool. These are the nine deep pools. Try bringing him again!” The next day he again came with him to see Huzi. Before he had even settled himself, the shaman lost his composure and ran away. Huzi said: “After him!” Liezi chased him but could not catch him. He came back and reported to Huzi: “He has vanished, he is gone; I couldn't catch him.” Huzi said: “Just now I showed him my source before it had ever come forth. I was empty with him and went along with him, bending and yielding, so that he did not know who or what I was. Now I seemed to him like grass bending in the wind, now like waves following the current, and so he fled.” After this Liezi felt that he had never really begun to learn, and he went home. For three years he did not go out. He cooked for his wife, fed the pigs as if he were feeding people, and had no preferences in anything. From carving and polishing he returned to simplicity; like a clod, he stood alone in his bodily form. Amid the tangle of things he kept himself sealed, and remained so, as one, to the end of his life.
Master Liezi was going to Qi, but turned back halfway and met Bohun Maoren. Bohun Maoren said: “Why have you turned back?” He said: “I was alarmed.” “What alarmed you?” “I ate at ten soup shops, and at five of them they served me before anyone else.” Bohun Maoren said: “If so, why should that alarm you?” He said: “When the sincerity within has not been dissolved, it leaks out through the body and becomes a radiance; it overawes people's hearts from outside and makes them treat me more lightly than the honored and the elderly, and this brings trouble. Now the soup sellers merely sell soup and food and make a little profit on the extra; their gain is meager and their power slight, and yet they treat me like this. How much more would the lord of ten thousand chariots, whose body is worn out by his state and whose wisdom is spent on its affairs! He would entrust me with affairs and demand results of me. That is why I was alarmed.” Bohun Maoren said: “Well observed! But stay as you are, and people will flock to you.” Not long afterward he went to see him, and there were shoes crowding the doorway. Bohun Maoren stood facing north, propping his chin on his staff. He stood there for a while, then left without a word. The doorkeeper told Liezi. Liezi grabbed his shoes and ran barefoot after him. Reaching the gate, he asked: “Since you have come, sir, will you not give me some medicine?” He said: “Enough. I told you before that people would flock to you, and indeed they flock to you. It is not that you are able to make people flock to you, but that you are unable to keep them from flocking to you. What use is it to move people so? To move people you must first display something unusual. And whatever you move will shake your own foundations as well, which is pointless. Those who keep company with you will not tell you this. Their petty talk is all poison to a person. None of them awakens, none comes to understand; how could they help one another to ripen?”
Yang Zhu went south to Pei, just as Lao Dan was traveling west to Qin. He went out to meet him in the countryside and came upon Laozi at Liang. Halfway along the road Laozi looked up to heaven and sighed: “At first I thought you could be taught; now I see you cannot be taught.” Yang Zhu did not reply. When they reached the lodging house, he brought water for washing and rinsing, a towel and comb, took off his shoes outside the door, and went forward on his knees, saying: “Just now, master, you looked up to heaven and sighed, ‘At first I thought you could be taught; now I see you cannot be taught.’ Your disciple wished to ask you what you meant, but we were traveling and you had no leisure, so I did not dare. Now you are at leisure; may I ask what my fault is?” Laozi said: “You glare and you stare; who could live with you? The greatest whiteness seems sullied; abundant virtue seems insufficient.” Yang Zhu's expression changed with unease, and he said: “I respectfully receive your instruction.” When he first arrived at the inn, the whole household had welcomed and waited on him: the master of the house set out his mat, the wife held the towel and comb, the other lodgers gave up their mats, and those tending the fire left the stove. When he left, the lodgers were already vying with him for a place on the mat.
Yang Zhu passed through Song and stayed at an inn to the east. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one ugly; the ugly one was honored and the beautiful one slighted. Master Yang asked the reason. The innkeeper's boy answered: “The beautiful one thinks herself beautiful, so we do not notice her beauty; the ugly one thinks herself ugly, so we do not notice her ugliness.” Master Yang said: “Remember this, my disciples! Act worthily but put away the conduct of one who thinks himself worthy, and where could you go and not be loved?”
In the world there is a way that always wins and a way that never always wins. The way that always wins is called softness; the way that always fails is called strength. These two are easy to know, yet people do not know them. Hence the saying of high antiquity: the strong overcome those who are not their equals; the soft overcome those who are stronger than they. One who overcomes those who are not his equals is in danger when he meets his equal. One who overcomes those stronger than he is in no danger at all. Using this to overcome one's own self is like having followers; using this to take charge of the world is like having followers. This is called winning without trying to win, taking charge without trying to take charge. Yuzi said: “If you want to be hard, you must guard it with softness; if you want to be strong, you must protect it with weakness. What accumulates softness is sure to become hard; what accumulates weakness is sure to become strong. Observe what a person accumulates, and you will know where fortune and misfortune lie. Strength overcomes those who are not its equal, but when it meets its equal, it is hard pressed. Softness overcomes those stronger than itself, and its power cannot be measured.” Lao Dan said: “When an army is strong it will be destroyed; when a tree is strong it will snap. The soft and weak are companions of life; the hard and strong are companions of death.”
Beings need not be alike in shape to be alike in intelligence, and need not be alike in intelligence to be alike in shape. The sage takes what is alike in intelligence and disregards what is alike in shape; ordinary people draw near to what is alike in shape and keep their distance from what is alike in intelligence. Those whose shape is like ours they draw near to and love; those whose shape differs from ours they keep at a distance and fear. A creature with a frame of seven chi, with hands and feet that differ, with hair on its head and teeth in its mouth, standing upright and walking, is called a human being; yet a human being does not necessarily lack the heart of a beast. Even if he has the heart of a beast, he is treated as kin because of his shape. A creature with wings or horns, with tusks and claws, that flies up or runs on all fours, is called a bird or beast; yet birds and beasts do not necessarily lack the heart of a human being. Even if they have the heart of a human being, they are kept at a distance because of their shape. Paoxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xiahou clan had snakes' bodies and human faces, oxen's heads and tigers' noses; they had shapes that were not human, but they had the virtue of great sages. Jie of Xia, Zhou of Yin, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu had looks and seven apertures all the same as other people, but they had the hearts of birds and beasts. Yet ordinary people hold to a single shape in seeking the highest intelligence, which cannot come near to it. The Yellow Emperor fought the Fiery Emperor in the wilds of Banquan, leading bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, lynxes, and tigers as his vanguard, with eagles, pheasants, hawks, and kites as his banners; this was commanding birds and beasts by force. Yao had Kui take charge of music; when he struck and tapped the stone chimes, the hundred beasts danced together; when the “Xiao Shao” music was played in its nine movements, the phoenixes came and performed their ceremonial dance; this was attracting birds and beasts by sound. So how are the hearts of birds and beasts different from those of humans? Their forms and voices differ from ours, and we do not know the way to communicate with them. The sage knows everything and understands everything, and so he can lead them and make use of them. The intelligence of birds and beasts is by nature like that of humans in some respects: they all desire to preserve their lives, and they do not need to borrow this intelligence from humans. Male and female pair off, mother and young love each other; they avoid open ground and keep to rough terrain, shun the cold and seek warmth; at rest they live in groups, on the move they go in ranks; the young stay in the middle and the grown ones on the outside; they lead one another to drink, and call the flock together when they eat. In the most ancient times they lived together with people and went about side by side with people. In the time of the emperors and kings, they first became alarmed and scattered. By the later ages, they hid and fled to avoid harm. Today in the eastern land of Jie, the people there are often able to understand the speech of the six domestic animals; this is something gained by partial knowledge. The divine sages of the most ancient times knew fully the feelings and ways of the myriad things and understood completely the sounds and voices of other species. They assembled and gathered them, instructed them and received them, just as they did the people. So the earliest people first met with ghosts, spirits, and goblins, next reached the peoples of the eight directions, and finally gathered the birds, beasts, and insects. That is to say, the hearts and intelligence of creatures with blood and qi do not differ greatly. The divine sages knew this, and so in their teaching and instruction they left nothing out.
In Song there was a monkey keeper who loved monkeys and raised a whole troop of them. He could understand the monkeys' thoughts, and the monkeys also understood his heart. He cut back on his family's food to satisfy the monkeys' wants. Before long he ran short and was about to limit their food. Afraid that the monkeys would not be obedient to him, he first tricked them, saying: “I'll give you acorns, three in the morning and four in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys all stood up in a rage. Then he said: “I'll give you acorns, four in the morning and three in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys all lay down, delighted. All the ways in which the clever and the dull ensnare one another are just like this. The sage ensnares the foolish masses with his intelligence just as the monkey keeper ensnared the monkeys with his. Neither name nor substance was diminished, yet he could make them angry or pleased!
Ji Xingzi was raising a fighting cock for King Xuan of Zhou. After ten days the king asked: “Is the cock ready to fight?” He said: “Not yet. It is still vain and haughty and relies on its spirit.” After ten more days the king asked again. He said: “Not yet. It still reacts to shadows and sounds.” After ten more days the king asked again. He said: “Not yet. It still glares and is full of spirit.” After ten more days the king asked again. He said: “It is nearly ready. Though other cocks crow, it no longer changes; look at it and it seems a cock made of wood. Its virtue is complete. Other cocks will not dare to take it on; they will just turn and run.”
Hui Ang went to see King Kang of Song. King Kang stamped his feet, cleared his throat, and said sharply: “What I like is courage and strength; I do not like those who practice benevolence and righteousness. What will you teach me, my guest?” Hui Ang replied: “I have a way by which, however brave a man may be, if he stabs you his blade will not go in; however strong he may be, if he strikes you he will not hit. Would Your Majesty alone have no interest in this?” The king of Song said: “Good. That is what I want to hear.” Hui Ang said: “For the blade not to go in and the blow not to land is still a humiliation. I have a way by which, however brave a man may be, he will not dare to stab you; however strong he may be, he will not dare to strike you. But not daring does not mean he has no wish to. I have a way by which people will have no wish to do so in the first place. Yet having no wish to does not mean they have a heart that loves and benefits you. I have a way by which all the men and women in the world will joyfully wish to love and benefit you. This is better than courage and strength, four levels above them. Would Your Majesty alone have no interest in this?” The king of Song said: “That is what I want to obtain.” Hui Ang replied: “Confucius and Mozi are the ones. Kong Qiu and Mo Di had no land, yet they were as rulers; they had no office, yet they were as chiefs. All the men and women in the world stretch their necks and stand on tiptoe, wishing them peace and benefit. Now Your Majesty is the lord of ten thousand chariots. If you truly have this aspiration, everyone within your four borders will receive its benefit, and you will far surpass Confucius and Mozi.” The king of Song had no reply. Hui Ang hurried out. The king of Song said to his attendants: “How eloquent! My guest has won me over with his argument!”