In the time of King Mu of Zhou, a magician came from a land in the far west. He could enter water and fire and pass through metal and stone; he could overturn mountains and rivers and move cities and towns; he could ride on the void without falling and meet solid things without being obstructed. His thousand changes and myriad transformations could not be exhausted. Not only could he change the forms of things, he could also alter people's thoughts. King Mu revered him like a god and served him like a lord. He gave up his own chambers for him to live in, brought the three sacrificial animals to offer him, and chose singing girls to entertain him. But the magician thought the king's palace low and shabby and not fit to live in, the king's kitchen fare rank and foul and not fit to eat, and the king's concubines smelly and ugly and not fit to approach. So King Mu built for him anew. In earthwork and carpentry, in red ochre and white plaster, no skill was left unused. The five treasuries were emptied before the tower was finished. It was a thousand ren high, looming above the Zhongnan Mountains, and was called the Tower Reaching to the Middle of Heaven. He chose the loveliest and most graceful maidens of Zheng and Wei, perfumed them, shaped their moth eyebrows, adorned them with hairpins and earrings, dressed them in fine gauze, and trailed them in white silk of Qi. Their faces were powdered white and their brows painted black; they wore jade pendants and rings. Angelica and pollia were mixed in to fill the rooms with fragrance, and the music of “Receiving the Clouds,” “Six Gems,” “Nine Shao,” and “Morning Dew” was played to please him. Every month robes of jade were presented, and every morning dishes of jade were offered. Yet the magician was still not content, and he came to the tower only reluctantly. Before long, he invited the king to travel with him. The king held on to the magician's sleeve and soared upward until they stopped in the middle of heaven. When they reached the magician's palace, it was built of gold and silver and strung with pearls and jade. It rose above the clouds and rain, and one could not tell what it rested on below; from afar it looked like massed clouds. What the eyes saw and the ears heard, what the nose smelled and the mouth tasted, was nothing found in the human world. The king truly believed it was the Pure Capital, Purple Tenuity, the Central Heaven, and the Vast Music, where the Supreme Emperor dwells. The king looked down, and his own palaces and terraces seemed like piled clods and heaped straw. The king thought he could live there for decades without longing for his kingdom. Again the magician invited the king to travel with him. Where they arrived, looking up he could not see the sun or moon; looking down he could not see rivers or seas. The light and shadows that shone there dazzled the king's eyes so that he could not see; the sounds that came there confused the king's ears so that he could not hear. His hundred bones and six viscera trembled and would not settle. His mind was bewildered and his essence dispersed, and he begged the magician to take him back. The magician gave him a push, and the king felt as if he were falling through empty space. When he awoke, he was sitting in the same place as before, and his attendants were the same people as before. He looked at what was in front of him: the wine had not yet cleared, and the meat had not yet dried. The king asked where he had been, and his attendants said: “Your Majesty has only been sitting in silence.” After this King Mu was out of his senses for three months before he recovered. He asked the magician about it. The magician said: “Your Majesty and I traveled in spirit; how could the body have moved? Moreover, how was the place where we stayed different from Your Majesty's palace? How was the place where we roamed different from Your Majesty's gardens? Your Majesty is used to what is constant and doubts what is momentary. The utmost of change and transformation, its slowness and swiftness—can they ever be fully copied?” The king was greatly pleased. He gave no more thought to the affairs of state, took no pleasure in his ministers and concubines, and gave himself up to distant travels. He ordered his chariot drawn by the eight steeds harnessed. In the lead chariot, the inner right horse was Hualiu and the inner left Lü'er; the outer right was Chiji and the outer left Baiyi; Zaofu drove and Tai Bing rode on the right. In the second chariot, the inner right horse was Quhuang and the inner left Yulun; the outer left was Daoli and the outer right Shanzi; Bo Yao was in command, Can Bai drove, and Ben Rong rode on the right. They galloped a thousand li and came to the land of the Jusou clan. The Jusou offered the blood of a white swan for the king to drink and prepared the milk of cows and mares to wash the king's feet and those of the men of both chariots. When they had drunk, they went on and camped for the night at a bend of the Kunlun Mountains, on the north bank of the Red River. Another day they climbed the heights of Kunlun to view the palace of the Yellow Emperor, and raised a mound there as a memorial for later ages. Then the king was a guest of the Queen Mother of the West and feasted with her above the Jasper Pool. The Queen Mother of the West sang for the king, and the king sang in reply; their words were full of sorrow. He went west to see where the sun goes down, traveling ten thousand li in a single day. Then the king sighed and said: “Alas! I, the one man, am not full in virtue but given over to pleasure. Later ages will surely count up my faults!” Was King Mu nearly a divine being? He was able to enjoy all the pleasures of his own life, and still he lived a hundred years before he passed away, and the world thought he had ascended afar.
Laochengzi went to study illusion with Master Yin Wen, and for three years he was taught nothing. Laochengzi asked what his fault was and begged to be allowed to leave. Master Yin Wen bowed, led him into his room, sent his attendants away, and spoke to him, saying: “Long ago, when Lao Dan was setting out for the west, he turned to me and said: ‘The qi of living things and the shapes of formed things are all illusion. What the Maker and Transformer begins, what yin and yang change, is called life and is called death. What exhausts the numbers and reaches through the changes, shifting and altering according to form, is called transformation and is called illusion. The skill of the Maker of things is subtle and its work profound, so it is hard to exhaust and hard to bring to an end. The skill of what follows form is plain to see and its work shallow, so it vanishes as soon as it arises. Only when you know that illusion and transformation are no different from life and death can you begin to learn illusion.’ You and I are illusions too; what need is there to learn it?” Laochengzi went home and, following Master Yin Wen's words, pondered deeply for three months. Then he was able to appear and disappear at will, to reverse the four seasons, raising thunder in winter and making ice in summer, making flying things run and running things fly. To the end of his life he never set down his art in writing, and so it has not been handed down in the world. Master Liezi said: “One who is good at transformation acts in secret and in ordinary ways, and his achievements look like those of other people. The virtue of the Five Emperors and the achievements of the Three Kings were not necessarily all accomplished by the power of wisdom and courage; some may have been accomplished through transformation. Who can fathom it?”
Waking has eight signs, and dreaming has six forms. What are the eight signs? The first is events, the second action, the third gain, the fourth loss, the fifth sorrow, the sixth joy, the seventh birth, the eighth death. These eight signs are where the body meets the world. What are the six forms? The first is the ordinary dream, the second the startled dream, the third the dream of longing, the fourth the waking dream, the fifth the joyful dream, the sixth the fearful dream. These six are where the spirit makes contact. Those who do not know where stirrings and changes arise are bewildered by the causes of things when they come; those who know where stirrings and changes arise understand the causes of things when they come. Knowing their causes, one has nothing to fear. The fullness and emptiness, waning and waxing of one's body all communicate with heaven and earth and respond to the classes of things. So when yin qi is strong, one dreams of wading through great waters and is afraid; when yang qi is strong, one dreams of walking through a great fire and being burned; when yin and yang are both strong, one dreams of giving life and killing. When one is very full, one dreams of giving; when very hungry, one dreams of taking. So those whose illness is light and empty dream of floating up; those whose illness is heavy and solid dream of drowning. Sleeping on one's sash, one dreams of snakes; when a flying bird pulls one's hair, one dreams of flying. When the weather is about to turn dark, one dreams of fire; when about to fall ill, one dreams of eating. Those who dream of drinking wine will have sorrow; those who dream of singing and dancing will weep. Master Liezi said: “What the spirit meets becomes a dream; what the body touches becomes an event. So what one thinks of by day one dreams of by night; it is what the spirit and body meet. Therefore, for one whose spirit is concentrated, thoughts and dreams vanish of themselves. Those who trust their waking hours do not speak of it, and those who trust their dreams do not understand; these are the comings and goings of the transformation of things. The Perfected of old forgot themselves when awake and did not dream when asleep—is this empty talk?”
At the southern corner of the far west there is a land whose borders no one knows, called the land of Gumang. There the qi of yin and yang do not meet, so there is no distinction between cold and heat; the light of the sun and moon does not shine, so there is no distinction between day and night. Its people do not eat or wear clothes, and they sleep a great deal. They wake once every fifty days, and they take what they do in their dreams to be real and what they see when awake to be false. In the middle of the four seas lies what is called the Central Kingdom. It straddles the Yellow River north and south and stretches beyond Mount Dai east and west, for more than ten thousand li. There yin and yang are measured out properly, so there is now cold and now heat; darkness and light are clearly divided, so there is now day and now night. Its people are some wise and some foolish. The myriad things flourish and multiply, and talents and arts are of many kinds. There are rulers and ministers overseeing one another, and rites and laws holding people together. What they say and do cannot be counted. They wake once and sleep once, and they take what they do when awake to be real and what they see in dreams to be false. At the northern corner of the far east there is a land called Fuluo. Its soil and air are always hot, lit by the remaining light of the sun and moon. Its land grows no good crops. Its people eat grass roots and the fruit of trees and do not know how to cook with fire. They are hard and fierce by nature; the strong trample the weak, and they value victory and do not esteem righteousness. They run about a great deal and rest little; they are always awake and never sleep.
The Yin family of Zhou ran a great estate, and those under them hurried about their labors from dawn to dusk without rest. There was an old servant whose strength was exhausted, yet they worked him all the harder. By day he groaned and cried out as he went about his work; by night, dazed and exhausted, he slept soundly. His spirit was scattered, and every night he dreamed that he was the ruler of a state, placed above the people, in charge of all the affairs of the state, feasting and roaming in palaces and lodges, doing whatever he wished, his joy beyond compare. When he awoke he was a servant again. Someone tried to console him for his toil, and the servant said: “A human life is a hundred years, divided between day and night. By day I am a slave, and bitter it is; but by night I am a ruler, and my joy is beyond compare. What is there to complain about?” Master Yin's mind was busy with worldly affairs, and his worries were all about the family business; his mind and body were both worn out, and at night he too fell asleep dazed and exhausted. Every night he dreamed that he was someone's servant, running about doing chores; there was nothing he was not made to do. He was cursed, caned, and beaten; there was nothing he was spared. In his sleep he muttered, talked, and groaned, and only at dawn did he rest. Master Yin was troubled by this and consulted a friend. The friend said: “Your position is enough to bring you honor, and your wealth is more than enough; you surpass others by far. If at night you dream you are a servant, this alternation of hardship and ease is the constant order of fate. If you want to have both in waking and in dreams, how could you ever get it?” When Master Yin heard his friend's words, he lightened his servants' tasks and reduced the matters he worried over, and both men's sufferings eased a little.
A man of Zheng was gathering firewood in the countryside when he came upon a frightened deer. He met it, struck it, and killed it. Fearing that someone might see it, he hurriedly hid it in a dry ditch and covered it with plantain leaves, overjoyed. Shortly afterward he forgot where he had hidden it, and so he thought it had been a dream. He went along the road talking about it. Someone nearby heard him, followed his words, and took the deer. When he got home, he told his wife: “Just now a woodcutter dreamed he had caught a deer and did not know where it was. Now I have got it, so his dream was a true one.” His wife said: “Might it be that you dreamed you saw a woodcutter who caught a deer? Was there really any woodcutter? Now you have really got a deer—so your dream was true?” The husband said: “I have really got the deer; what need is there to know whether it was his dream or mine?” When the woodcutter got home, he could not stop regretting the lost deer. That night he really dreamed of the place where he had hidden it, and also dreamed of the man who had got it. At dawn he followed his dream, searched, and found him. So they went to law over it and brought it before the magistrate. The magistrate said: “You at first really caught a deer and falsely called it a dream; then you really dreamed of the deer being taken and falsely called it real. He really took your deer, and now he is disputing the deer with you. And his wife says that he recognized another man's deer in a dream and that nobody really got a deer. Now here is this deer; I propose to divide it between the two of you.” This was reported to the ruler of Zheng. The ruler of Zheng said: “Ha! Is the magistrate going to dream of dividing someone's deer too?” He asked his chief minister about it. The chief minister said: “Whether it was a dream or not is something I cannot tell. To tell waking from dreaming, only the Yellow Emperor or Kong Qiu could do that. Now the Yellow Emperor and Kong Qiu are gone; who can tell? For now it is best to go by the magistrate's words.”
Huazi of Yangli in Song fell ill in middle age with forgetfulness. What he received in the morning he forgot by evening; what he gave in the evening he forgot by morning. On the road he forgot to walk; in the house he forgot to sit. Now, he did not remember what had gone before; later, he did not remember the present. His whole household was distressed by it. They went to a scribe to divine for him by tortoise shell, but he could not read it; they went to a shaman to pray for him, but it did not stop it; they went to a physician to treat him, but it was not cured. A Confucian scholar of Lu recommended himself as able to cure it, and Huazi's wife and children offered half their property for his remedy. The scholar said: “This is certainly not something that can be divined by hexagrams and omens, prayed away by supplications, or treated with medicines and needles. I will try to transform his mind and change his thoughts; perhaps he may recover!” So he tried exposing him to the cold, and he asked for clothes; he tried starving him, and he asked for food; he tried shutting him in the dark, and he asked for light. The scholar happily told his son: “The illness can be cured. But my method is secret and has been handed down in my family without being told to others. Please send away your attendants and let me stay alone with him in his room for seven days.” They did as he said, and no one knew what he did, but the illness of many years was entirely removed in one morning. When Huazi came to his senses, he flew into a great rage. He drove out his wife, punished his son, and took up a spear to chase away the scholar. The people of Song seized him and asked the reason. Huazi said: “When I was forgetful, I was vast and boundless and did not even notice whether heaven and earth existed. Now suddenly I remember the past, and all the survivals and losses, gains and failures, sorrows and joys, loves and hates of the last several decades rise up in ten thousand tangled threads. I fear that the survivals and losses, gains and failures, sorrows and joys, loves and hates of the future will disturb my mind like this. Can I ever again have a moment's forgetfulness?” Zigong heard of this and found it strange, and told Confucius. Confucius said: “This is beyond your reach!” and turned to Yan Hui to have him record it.
The Pang family of Qin had a son who was bright when he was young, but when he grew up he suffered from a disease of confusion. When he heard singing he thought it was weeping; when he saw white he thought it was black; when he smelled something fragrant he thought it rotten; when he tasted something sweet he thought it bitter; when he did wrong he thought it right. Whatever he turned his mind to—heaven and earth, the four directions, water and fire, cold and heat—there was nothing he did not get upside down. A man named Yang told his father: “The gentlemen of Lu have many arts and skills; perhaps they can cure him. Why don't you go and ask them?” The father set off for Lu, and passing through Chen he met Lao Dan, and so told him of his son's symptoms. Lao Dan said: “How do you know your son is confused? Today all the people in the world are bewildered about right and wrong and muddled about benefit and harm. So many share the same illness that no one is aware of it. Besides, the confusion of one person is not enough to overturn a family; the confusion of one family is not enough to overturn a village; the confusion of one village is not enough to overturn a state; the confusion of one state is not enough to overturn the world. If the whole world is confused, who is there to overturn it? If the minds of all the people in the world were like your son's, then it would be you who were confused. Sorrow and joy, sounds and colors, smells and tastes, right and wrong—who can set them right? And these words of mine may not be free from confusion either—how much less can the gentlemen of Lu, who are the most confused of all, cure other people's confusion? Rather than spend your provisions, you had better hurry home.”
A man of Yan was born in Yan and raised in Chu, and in old age he was returning to his native state. As he passed through the state of Jin, his traveling companions played a trick on him. Pointing to a city wall, they said: “This is the wall of a city of Yan.” The man's face changed with sadness. Pointing to an altar of the soil, they said: “This is the altar of your village.” He sighed deeply. Pointing to a house, they said: “This is the cottage of your forefathers.” Tears streamed down his face. Pointing to a mound, they said: “This is the tomb of your forefathers.” He wept uncontrollably. His companions burst out laughing and said: “We were fooling you just now; this is only the state of Jin.” The man was deeply ashamed. When he reached Yan and truly saw the city walls and altars of Yan, and truly saw the cottage and tombs of his forefathers, his feelings of sorrow were much weaker.