Zhongni (Confucius) was sitting at leisure. Zigong came in to attend on him and saw that he looked worried. Zigong did not dare to ask about it, but went out and told Yan Hui. Yan Hui took up his zither and sang. Confucius heard it and, as expected, called Hui in and asked him: “Why are you alone so happy?” Hui said: “Why are you alone so worried, Master?” Confucius said: “First tell me what you have in mind.” Hui said: “I once heard you, Master, say: ‘Delight in heaven and know destiny, and so you will not worry.’ That is why I am happy.” Confucius looked grave for a while, then said: “Did I say that? You have misunderstood. Those were my words of an earlier day; please take my words of today as correct. You only know that one who delights in heaven and knows destiny has no worries; you do not yet know how great are the worries of one who delights in heaven and knows destiny. Now let me tell you the truth of it. To cultivate one's own person, to accept poverty or success, to know that coming and going are not up to oneself, and to have no turmoil in one's mind—this is what you call the freedom from worry of one who delights in heaven and knows destiny. Formerly I edited the Book of Songs and the Book of Documents and set right the rites and music, intending to bring order to the world and leave something to later generations—not merely to cultivate my own person and govern the state of Lu. Yet the ruler and ministers of Lu lose their proper order more every day, benevolence and righteousness decline further, and feelings and natures grow ever thinner. If this Way does not prevail in a single state in my own time, what of the whole world and the generations to come? I have begun to see that the Songs and the Documents, the rites and music, cannot save the world from disorder, but I do not yet know the method to reform them. This is what worries one who delights in heaven and knows destiny. Nevertheless, I have grasped it. The delight and knowing of which I spoke are not what the ancients called delight and knowing. To have no delight and no knowing—that is true delight and true knowing. Therefore there is nothing one does not delight in, nothing one does not know, nothing one does not worry about, nothing one does not do. Why abandon the Songs and the Documents, the rites and music? Why reform them?” Yan Hui faced north, bowed with clasped hands, and said: “I have grasped it too.” He went out and told Zigong. Zigong was at a loss and bewildered. He went home and pondered deeply for seven days, neither sleeping nor eating, until he was nothing but skin and bone. Yan Hui went again to explain it to him, and only then did he return to the gate of Qiu, playing the zither, singing, and reciting the texts, never stopping for the rest of his life.
A high official of Chen was on a mission to Lu and paid a private visit to Shusun. Shusun said: “Our state has a sage.” He said: “Is it not Kong Qiu?” “It is.” “How do you know he is a sage?” Shusun said: “I have often heard Yan Hui say: ‘Kong Qiu can set aside his mind and use his body.’” The official of Chen said: “Our state also has a sage; did you not know?” “Who is this sage?” “Among the disciples of Lao Dan there is one called Kangcangzi, who has attained Dan's Tao and can see with his ears and hear with his eyes.” The Marquis of Lu heard this and was greatly astonished. He sent his senior minister with rich gifts to invite him. Kangcangzi accepted the invitation and came, and the Marquis of Lu humbly asked him about it. Kangcangzi said: “Those who passed this on have spoken falsely. I can see and hear without using my ears and eyes, but I cannot exchange the functions of ears and eyes.” The Marquis of Lu said: “That is stranger still. What is this Tao? I would very much like to hear of it.” Kangcangzi said: “My body is joined with my mind, my mind with my qi, my qi with my spirit, and my spirit with nothingness. If there is the tiniest thing, the faintest sound, whether far away beyond the eight wildernesses or close by within my eyebrows and eyelashes, if it comes to touch me, I am sure to know it. Yet I do not know whether it is perceived by my seven apertures and four limbs or known by my heart, belly, and six viscera; it simply knows itself.” The Marquis of Lu was greatly pleased. Another day he told Zhongni of this, and Zhongni smiled and did not answer.
The Chief Minister of Shang met Confucius and said: “Are you, Qiu, a sage?” Confucius said: “How would I, Qiu, dare to be a sage? I am only someone who has studied widely and knows a good deal.” The Chief Minister of Shang said: “Were the Three Kings sages?” Confucius said: “The Three Kings were good at employing wisdom and courage; whether they were sages I, Qiu, do not know.” “Were the Five Emperors sages?” Confucius said: “The Five Emperors were good at employing benevolence and righteousness; whether they were sages I, Qiu, do not know.” “Were the Three Sovereigns sages?” Confucius said: “The Three Sovereigns were good at employing what suited the times; whether they were sages I, Qiu, do not know.” The Chief Minister of Shang was greatly startled and said: “Then who is a sage?” Confucius's expression changed, and after a while he said: “Among the people of the West there is a sage. He does not govern, yet there is no disorder; he does not speak, yet he is trusted; he does not transform, yet things go of themselves. So vast is he that the people can find no name for him. I, Qiu, suspect that he is a sage, but I do not know whether he is truly a sage or truly not a sage.” The Chief Minister of Shang fell silent and thought to himself: “Kong Qiu is deceiving me!”
Zixia asked Confucius: “What sort of man is Yan Hui?” The Master said: “In benevolence Hui is better than I, Qiu.” “What sort of man is Zigong?” The Master said: “In eloquence Ci is better than I.” “What sort of man is Zilu?” The Master said: “In courage You is better than I.” “What sort of man is Zizhang?” The Master said: “In dignity Shi is better than I.” Zixia rose from his mat and asked: “Then why do these four serve you, Master?” He said: “Sit down! I will tell you. Hui can be benevolent but cannot go against it; Ci can be eloquent but cannot hold his tongue; You can be brave but cannot be cautious; Shi can be dignified but cannot mix with others. Even if I could have all that the four of them possess in exchange for what I have, I would not accept. That is why they serve me without wavering.”
After Master Liezi had studied under Huqiu Zilin and befriended Bohun Maoren, he went to live in Nanguo. Those who came to live with him could not be counted in a day. Even so, Master Liezi kept himself withdrawn. Every morning they debated with one another, and there was no one who did not hear of it. Yet for twenty years he lived wall to wall with Nanguozi without calling on him; when they met on the road, their eyes passed as if they did not see each other. The disciples and servants of his household had no doubt that Master Liezi and Nanguozi were enemies. Someone who came from Chu asked Master Liezi: “Why are you and Nanguozi enemies, sir?” Master Liezi said: “Nanguozi's face is full and his heart is empty; his ears do not hear, his eyes do not see, his mouth does not speak, his mind does not know, his body is never alarmed. What would be the point of going to see him? Still, I will try going with you.” He picked out forty disciples to go with him. When they saw Nanguozi, he was indeed like an effigy, and they could make no contact with him. He looked back at Master Liezi as though his body and spirit were not paired, and it was impossible to be one of his company. Then suddenly Nanguozi pointed at the last in line of Master Liezi's disciples and talked with him, cheerfully, as though he were bent on winning the argument. Master Liezi's followers were astonished, and when they returned home they all looked puzzled. Master Liezi said: “One who has grasped the meaning has no words, and one who has reached full knowing also has no words. To use no-words as words is still speaking; to use no-knowing as knowing is still knowing. No-words and not speaking, no-knowing and not knowing—these too are speaking and knowing. There is also nothing he does not speak of and nothing he does not know; and there is also nothing he speaks of and nothing he knows. It is just like this. Why be so foolishly astonished?”
In Master Liezi's studies, at the end of three years his heart did not dare to think of right and wrong, and his mouth did not dare to speak of benefit and harm; only then did Old Master Shang give him a single glance. After five years his heart again thought of right and wrong and his mouth again spoke of benefit and harm; only then did Old Master Shang for the first time relax his face and smile. After seven years he let his heart think whatever it would, and there was no longer any right or wrong; he let his mouth say whatever it would, and there was no longer any benefit or harm; only then did the master for the first time draw him over to sit beside him on his mat. After nine years he let his heart think without restraint and his mouth speak without restraint, and he no longer knew whether right and wrong, benefit and harm were his own, nor whether they were another's; outside and inside had merged into one. After that, his eyes were like his ears, his ears like his nose, his nose like his mouth; nothing was not the same. His heart was concentrated and his body released; his bones and flesh all melted away; he did not feel what his body leaned on, what his feet trod on, what his heart thought, or what his words held. When it is just like this, nothing in the principle of things remains hidden.
At first Master Liezi loved to travel. Huqiuzi said: “Yukou loves to travel; what does he love about travel?” Liezi said: “The joy of travel is that what one enjoys is never the same as before. When others travel, they look at what they see; when I travel, I look at how things change. Traveling, traveling! No one has yet been able to tell what kind of traveling it is.” Huqiuzi said: “Is your traveling really the same as other people's, or do you say it is really different? Whatever one sees, one is always seeing its changes. You enjoy the fact that those things are never the same, but you do not know that you yourself are never the same. You devote yourself to traveling outward, but you do not know how to devote yourself to looking inward. One who travels outward seeks completeness in things; one who looks inward finds sufficiency in himself. To find sufficiency in oneself is the highest travel; to seek completeness in things is not the highest travel.” After this Liezi did not go out for the rest of his life, thinking that he did not know how to travel. Huqiuzi said: “That is the highest travel! One who travels to the utmost does not know where he is going; one who looks to the utmost does not know what he is looking at. Every thing is traveling, every thing is being looked at—this is what I call travel, and this is what I call looking. Therefore I say: that is the highest travel! That is the highest travel!”
Longshu said to Wen Zhi: “Your art is subtle. I have an illness; can you cure it?” Wen Zhi said: “I will do as you command. But first tell me the symptoms of your illness.” Longshu said: “When my village praises me, I do not take it as an honor; when the state disparages me, I do not take it as a disgrace. When I gain, I am not glad; when I lose, I am not worried. I look on life as death, on wealth as poverty. I look on others as pigs and on myself as another person. I live in my own home as if it were a roadside inn, and I look on my own village as if it were a land of barbarians. With all these ailments, titles and rewards cannot encourage me, punishments and penalties cannot intimidate me, rise and fall, benefit and harm cannot change me, and sorrow and joy cannot move me. So I cannot serve the ruler of my state, associate with relatives and friends, manage my wife and children, or control my servants. What illness is this? What remedy can cure it?” Wen Zhi then had Longshu stand with his back to the light, and he himself stood behind him facing the light and looked at him. After a while he said: “Ah! I see your heart. The space of one square cun is empty. You are nearly a sage! Six of the apertures of your heart are open and flowing, and one is not yet through. Perhaps this is why you now take a sage's wisdom for an illness! It is not something my shallow art can cure.”
What lives on constantly without anything to rely on is the Tao. To follow life and live on, so that even when it ends it is not lost, is the constant. To follow life and yet perish is misfortune. What dies constantly while having something to rely on is also the Tao. To follow death and die, so that even before its end it perishes of itself, is also the constant. To follow death and yet live is good fortune. Therefore to live without relying on anything is called the Tao, and to reach one's end by means of the Tao is called the constant. To die while relying on something is also called the Tao, and to die by means of the Tao is also called the constant. When Ji Liang died, Yang Zhu gazed at his gate and sang; when Sui Wu died, Yang Zhu stroked his corpse and wept. When a common man is born and when a common man dies, the crowd sings and the crowd weeps.
One whose eyes are about to go blind first makes out the tip of an autumn hair; one whose ears are about to go deaf first hears the flight of gnats; one whose sense of taste is about to fail first tells apart the waters of the Zi and the Sheng; one whose nose is about to be blocked first notices scorched and rotten smells; one whose body is about to stiffen first rushes about in haste; one whose mind is about to be confused first sees clearly right and wrong. Therefore, things do not turn back until they reach their extreme.
In Zheng, Puze had many worthies and Dongli had many talented men. Among the laborers of Puze was one Bofengzi, who, passing through Dongli, met Deng Xi. Deng Xi turned to his followers and said with a laugh: “Shall I make fun of the one who is coming, for you?” His followers said: “We would like to see it.” Deng Xi said to Bofengzi: “Do you know the meaning of nourishing and being nourished? Those who are nourished by others and cannot nourish themselves are of the same kind as dogs and pigs. Nourishing things and making them serve us is the power of man. That your sort get fed and full, clothed and rested, is the achievement of those who govern. You gather together, old and young, like animals in pens and things in the kitchen; how are you different from dogs and pigs?” Bofengzi did not reply. One of Bofengzi's followers stepped forward out of turn and said: “Has the grand master not heard of the many skills of Qi and Lu? Some are good at earthwork and carpentry, some good at metal and leather, some good at music, some good at writing and arithmetic, some good at leading armies, some good at the ancestral temples; every kind of talent is there. But none of them assigns the others their places, and none can command the others. Those who assign them places have no knowledge, and those who command them have no ability, yet those with knowledge and ability are commanded by them. Those who govern are the ones we command; what have you to boast of?” Deng Xi had no reply. He glanced at his followers and withdrew.
Gongyi Bo was famous among the feudal lords for his strength. Tangxi Gong spoke of him to King Xuan of Zhou, and the king prepared the proper gifts and invited him. When Gongyi Bo arrived, the king saw from his appearance that he was a weakling. King Xuan was puzzled and doubtful, and said: “How strong are you?” Gongyi Bo said: “Your servant's strength can break the leg of a spring grasshopper and bear the wing of an autumn cicada.” The king's face darkened and he said: “My strength can tear the hide of a rhinoceros and drag nine oxen by the tail, and still I regret that it is weak. You can break the leg of a spring grasshopper and bear the wing of an autumn cicada, and yet your strength is famous throughout the world; why is that?” Gongyi Bo sighed deeply, rose from his mat, and said: “What a good question, Your Majesty! Your servant dares to answer truthfully. My teacher was one Shangqiuzi, whose strength was unmatched in the world, yet his own six kinds of kin did not know it, because he never used his strength. I served him even at the risk of my life. Then he told me: ‘People want to see what they have not seen, so look at what others do not look at. They want to obtain what they have not obtained, so cultivate what others do not do. Thus one who learns to see first sees a cartload of firewood; one who learns to hear first hears the striking of a bell. For one to whom things are easy within, nothing is difficult without. Because nothing is difficult for him without, his fame does not go beyond his own family.’ Now your servant's name is known among the feudal lords; this is because I have gone against my teacher's teaching and displayed my ability. Yet my fame does not come from relying on my strength but from being able to use my strength. Is this not still better than relying on one's strength?”
Prince Mou of Zhongshan was a worthy prince of the state of Wei. He loved to keep company with worthy men, paid no attention to affairs of state, and delighted in Gongsun Long of Zhao. Yuezheng Ziyu and his followers laughed at him. Prince Mou said: “Why do you laugh at my delight in Gongsun Long?” Ziyu said: “As for what sort of man Gongsun Long is: in conduct he has no teacher, in learning he has no friends; he is glib but misses the point, sprawling with no school to belong to; he loves the strange and speaks recklessly; he wants to confuse people's minds and silence their mouths; he practices the same arts as Han Tan and his like.” Prince Mou's expression changed and he said: “Why do you describe Gongsun Long's faults like this? Let me hear the facts.” Ziyu said: “I laugh at the way Long fooled Kong Chuan. He said: ‘A good archer can make the tip of the next arrow strike the notch of the arrow before it, shot after shot reaching one another, arrow after arrow joined together, so that the first arrow hits the target and none falls off, while the notch of the last arrow is still held on the bowstring; looking at them, they seem one.’ Kong Chuan was amazed. Long said: ‘That is not yet the most marvelous. Hongchao, a disciple of Feng Meng, was angry with his wife and wanted to frighten her. He drew the Wuhao bow and shot a Qiwei arrow at her eye. The arrow came right at her pupil, yet her eye did not blink; the arrow fell to the ground without raising any dust.’ Are these the words of a wise man?” Prince Mou said: “The words of a wise man are certainly not what a fool can understand. That the tip of the next arrow strikes the notch of the one before is because the later shot is exactly equal to the earlier. That the arrow reached the pupil and the eye did not blink is because the arrow's force was spent. Why do you doubt it?” Yuezheng Ziyu said: “You are one of Long's followers; how could you not gloss over his faults? Let me tell you of his worst. Long deceived the king of Wei, saying: ‘There is intention but no mind. There is pointing but no reaching. There are things but no exhausting them. There are shadows but they do not move. A hair can pull a thousand jun. A white horse is not a horse. An orphan calf never had a mother.’ The ways in which he turns against categories and defies reason cannot all be told.” Prince Mou said: “You do not understand these utmost words and take them for faults; the fault lies with you. Where there is no intention, minds are the same; where there is no pointing, everything is reached; the one who exhausts things always has them; that the shadow does not move is explained by its being renewed; that a hair can pull a thousand jun is because the forces are exactly balanced; that a white horse is not a horse is because shape and name are separate; that an orphan calf never had a mother is because when it had one it was not an orphan calf.” Yuezheng Ziyu said: “You take every sound Gongsun Long makes as having order in it. If he farted, you would accept that too.” Prince Mou was silent for a long time, then took his leave, saying: “Let me wait for another day, and I will come to debate with you again.”
Yao had governed the world for fifty years, and he did not know whether the world was well governed or not, nor whether the countless people were glad to have him as their ruler or not. He asked those around him, and they did not know; he asked the outer court, and they did not know; he asked those outside government, and they did not know. So Yao went out in plain clothes and wandered along the broad highways, and heard a children's song: “You give our multitudes their lives; none but you sets our standard. Without knowing, without understanding, we follow the Supreme Emperor's rule.” Yao was pleased and asked: “Who taught you to say these words?” The children said: “We heard it from a high official.” He asked the official, and the official said: “It is an ancient poem.” Yao returned to the palace, summoned Shun, and abdicated the world to him. Shun accepted it without declining.
Yin Xi, the Keeper of the Pass, said: “When one does not dwell in oneself, the forms of things show themselves plainly. One's movement is like water, one's stillness is like a mirror, one's response is like an echo. So one's Tao is to follow things. It is things that go against the Tao; the Tao does not go against things. One who is good at following the Tao does not use the ears, does not use the eyes, does not use strength, does not use the mind. To wish to follow the Tao and yet seek it by using sight, hearing, bodily strength, and intellect is to miss it. Look for it and it is in front; suddenly it is behind. Used, it fills the six directions of space; set aside, no one knows where it is. It is not something that those with minds can keep far away, nor something those without minds can bring near. Only those who attain it in silence and complete it in their nature attain it. To know yet be without feelings, to be able yet not act—this is true knowing and true ability. If one sets out from no-knowing, how can there be feelings? If one sets out from no-ability, how can there be action? A heap of clods, a pile of dust—though it practices non-action, this is not the principle.”