Yuandao — Originating in the Way原道訓

The Way covers heaven and bears up earth. It widens the four quarters and opens the eight limits. It is so high that none can reach its edge, so deep that none can measure it. It wraps heaven and earth about, and it grants to the formless what they are given. Its source flows up like a spring, empty and slowly filling, turbid and turbid, muddy and slowly clearing. So stand it upright and it fills heaven and earth; lay it crosswise and it reaches through the four seas. Give it out and it is never used up, for it has no morning and no evening. Spread it and it covers the six directions; roll it up and it does not fill one hand. It draws in, and yet it can stretch. It is dark, and yet it can shine. It is weak, and yet it can be strong. It is soft, and yet it can be hard. It crosses the four cords and holds yin and yang within; it binds the universe together and makes the three lights plain. It is very thick, and it is slippery. It is very fine, and it is small. By it the mountain is high, by it the pool is deep, by it the beast runs, by it the bird flies, by it the sun and the moon are bright, by it the stars keep their courses, by it the qilin roams, by it the phoenix soars.

In high antiquity the Two Sovereigns got the handle of the Way. They stood at the center, their spirit roamed with the transforming power, and so they soothed the four quarters. Therefore heaven could turn and earth stay still, the wheel could roll and never wear out, the water could flow and never stop, and they could share beginning and end with the ten thousand things. Wind rose and clouds steamed up, and there was nothing they did not answer; thunder sounded and rain came down, and their answering had no end. They came forth like ghosts and went in like lightning; dragons rose and luan birds gathered. They turned like an even wheel on its hub, going round and coming round again. What had been carved and what had been polished went back again to the uncarved. They did without doing, and it met with the Way; they spoke without speaking, and it went through to virtue. Calm and glad, with nothing to boast of, they got harmony. The ten thousand things are not alike, and yet each was at ease in its nature. Their spirit lodged at the tip of an autumn hair, and yet it was large enough for the whole sum of the universe. Their virtue made heaven and earth generous and brought yin and yang into harmony; it measured the four seasons and tuned the five phases. Breathing warmth on them, covering and rearing them, they made the ten thousand things come up in crowds. It soaked the grass and the trees and seeped into metal and stone. Birds and beasts grew great, their hair and fur were sleek, their wings beat strongly, their horns and antlers came up. The young of the beasts did not die in the womb, the eggs of the birds did not spoil. A father had no grief of losing a son, an elder brother no sorrow of weeping for a younger. Children were not left orphans, women were not left widows. No rainbow came out, no baleful star traveled. All this was brought about by holding virtue within.

The highest Way gives birth to the ten thousand things and does not possess them; it completes the shapes of transformation and does not rule them. The things that walk on feet and breathe through beaks, that fly and wriggle and creep and stir, wait upon it and then are born, and yet none of them knows its virtue; they wait upon it and then die, and yet none of them is able to resent it. Those who gain by it cannot praise it; those who use it and fail cannot blame it. It gathers and heaps and hoards, and is no richer; it spreads and gives out, and is no poorer. It turns and hangs, and cannot be searched to the end; it is fine and small, and cannot be put to labor. Pile it up and it does not grow high; cast it down and it does not grow low. Add to it and it does not grow many; take from it and it does not grow few. Hew it and it does not grow thin; kill it and it is not hurt. Dig it and it does not grow deep; fill it and it does not grow shallow. Sudden, and dim: it cannot be made into an image. Dim, and sudden: use it and it is never spent. Dark, and hidden: it answers what has no form. Reaching, and running through: it does not stir in vain. With the hard and the soft it rolls up and spreads out; with yin and yang it bows down and looks up. Of old, when Feng Yi and Dabing drove, they rode the chariot of cloud and entered the cloud and the rainbow. They roamed in the thin mist and galloped in the sudden and the dim. They passed far off and went ever higher, to the very end of going. They went through frost and snow and left no track; the sunlight shone on them and they cast no shadow. They turned the whirlwind about and, holding the ram's-horn wind, they rose. They made the mountains and the rivers their cords, they trod and climbed the Kunlun, they pushed open the Changhe gate and sank into the gate of heaven. The drivers of a later age, though they have light chariots and good horses, stout whips and sharp bits, cannot contend with them for the lead. Therefore the great man is calm and has no thought, still and has no care. He makes heaven his canopy and earth his carriage; the four seasons are his horses and yin and yang his driver. He rides the cloud and climbs the sky and goes together with the maker of transformations. He gives rein to his will and loosens his pace and gallops through the great region. He walks when it is fit to walk and runs when it is fit to run. He has the Rain Master sprinkle the road and the Wind Earl sweep the dust away. He takes the lightning for his whip and the thunder for his wheels. Above he roams in the fields of the high sky; below he comes out at the gate that has no bound. He looks over all and lights all with no side taken, and turns back to keep himself whole. He orders the four corners and comes back again to the pivot. So if heaven is his canopy, nothing is left uncovered; if earth is his carriage, nothing is left uncarried; if the four seasons are his horses, nothing is left unemployed; if yin and yang are his driver, nothing is left unprovided. Therefore he is swift and is not shaken, he goes far and is not wearied. His four limbs do not move, his hearing and his sight are not worn down, and still he knows the shape and the bound of the eight cords and the nine wilds. How is this? He holds the handle of what is essential in the Way, and roams in the land that has no end. Therefore the affairs of all under heaven cannot be forced: follow what is so of itself and push it along. The changes of the ten thousand things cannot be searched to the end: take hold of the drift of what they come back to.

When the mirror and the water meet a form, they set out no cleverness and no contrivance, and yet the square and the round, the bent and the straight cannot get away from them. Therefore the echo does not answer at random, and the shadow is not cast in one fixed way. Calling and shouting are faint and blurred, and yet silently it is got of itself. That a man is born still is the nature of heaven; that he stirs after he is moved is the harm of that nature. That he can answer a thing like a spirit when it comes is the stirring of knowledge. When knowledge meets things, liking and hating are born. When hating takes shape and knowledge is lured outside, a man cannot turn back to himself, and the pattern of heaven is destroyed. So the man who has gone through to the Way does not trade heaven away for man. Outside he changes along with things, but inside he does not lose his true feeling. He is utterly without, and yet he supplies what is sought of him; he runs with the season, and yet he asks it where it will rest. Small and great, long and short, each has what belongs to it, and when the ten thousand things arrive, leaping and jumbled, he does not lose their number. So he dwells above and the people do not find him heavy; he stands in front and the crowd does not find him harmful. All under heaven turns to him, and the crooked and the wicked fear him. Because he contends with nothing among the ten thousand things, nothing dares contend with him.

A man may go down to the river and fish, and spend his days and still not fill his net. Though he has hook and barb and sharp point, fine line and fragrant bait, and adds to them the arts of Zhan He and Juanhuan, still he cannot contend in the taking with a net. An archer may hold the bow of Wuhao and draw the arrow of Qiwei, and add to them the skill of Yi and Pengmengzi, and aim at the flying birds, and still he cannot match the man with the net for number. Why is this? Because what he holds is small. Spread all under heaven and make it your cage, take the rivers and the sea and make them your net, and what fish could be lost, what bird could get away! So the arrow is not so good as the corded arrow, and the corded arrow is not so good as the image that has no form.

To let go the great Way and trust to little arts is no different from setting a crab to catch mice or a toad to catch fleas. It is not enough to forbid wickedness and block off evil, and the disorder only grows the more. Of old, Gun of Xia built a wall three fathoms high, and the lords turned their backs on him, and beyond the seas there were crafty hearts. Yu knew that all under heaven was in revolt. So he pulled down the walls and filled in the moats, scattered the goods and the wealth, burned the armor and the weapons, and gave out virtue instead. Then those beyond the seas came as guests and submitted, the peoples of the four quarters brought their tribute, and when he gathered the lords at Tushan, those who held jade and silk were ten thousand states. So when a scheming heart is hidden in the breast, the pure white is no longer unmixed and the virtue of the spirit is no longer whole. A man who does not know what is in his own body, how could he cherish what is far off! Therefore when the hide is made stout the weapon is made sharp, and when the wall is finished the ram is born. It is like pouring boiling water on what is boiling: the disorder only grows the worse. So if a man whips the biting dog and beats the kicking horse and would teach them, not even Yi Yin or Zaofu could change them. But let the wish to harm another die out within, and a man may tread on a hungry tiger's tail, and how much more on the likes of dogs and horses! So he who makes the Way his body is at ease and never comes to the end of it; he who trusts to arts toils and has nothing to show.

Steep laws and harsh cutting down are not the work of a hegemon or a king; the frequent use of the whip is not the art of reaching far. The keen eye of Li Zhu could make out the tip of a needle a hundred paces off, but it could not see the fish in the pool. The keen ear of Shi Kuang could tune the notes of the eight winds, but it could not hear ten li away. So to trust to the ability of one man is not enough even to govern a house of three mu. But cultivate the number of the Way and its pattern and follow what heaven and earth are of themselves, and the six directions are not too much to make even. Thus when Yu opened the channels, he took the water for his teacher; when Shennong sowed the grain, he took the sprouts for his teaching.

Duckweed takes root in water and the tree takes root in soil; the bird pushes the empty air and flies and the beast treads the solid ground and runs; the water dragon lives in the water and the tiger and the leopard dwell in the hills. This is the nature of heaven and earth. Two pieces of wood rub together and burn; metal and fire keep each other and melt; what is round always rolls and what is hollow floats. This is the force of what is so of itself. Therefore when the spring wind comes the sweet rain falls and the ten thousand things are born and reared. The feathered brood their eggs, the furred carry their young, grass and trees flower, birds and beasts lay and bear. No one sees who does it, and yet the work is already done. When the autumn wind brings the frost down, what grows upward is broken and hurt, hawks and eagles strike, the insects hide away, grass and trees bury their roots, fish and turtles gather in the deep. No one sees who does it, and yet all is gone and has no form. What lives in the trees roosts in a nest and what lives in the water dwells in a hole; the birds and beasts have their lairs and the people have their houses. Dwelling on dry land, oxen and horses suit; going by boat, much water suits. The Xiongnu turn out coarse fur coats and Yuyue brings forth cloth of kudzu. Each brings forth what it needs against the dry and the damp; each follows the place where it lives to keep off cold and heat. So all get what is fitting for them, and each thing is at ease in its place. Looking at it this way, the ten thousand things are of themselves as they are, and what more is there for the sage to do! South of Jiuyi there is little work on land and much work on the water, and so the people wear their hair loose and mark their bodies, to be like the scaly creatures, and wear short breeches and no trousers, to make swimming easy, and roll their short sleeves up, to make poling a boat easy. They follow what is there. North of Yanmen the Di do not eat grain. They hold the old cheap and the strong dear, and their custom prizes spirit and strength. A man does not unstring his bow and a horse is not loosed from its bridle. They are at ease with it. So when Yu went to the Country of the Naked, he took off his clothes to go in and put on robe and sash to come out. He followed what was there. Now when a man moves a tree and it loses the nature of its yin and yang, there is none that does not wither away. So the orange tree moved north of the river turns into the bitter orange, the myna does not cross the Ji, and the badger dies when it crosses the Wen. Form and nature cannot be exchanged; the force of a place and the dwelling in it cannot be shifted. Therefore the man who has gone through to the Way turns back to the clear and the still, and the man who has searched things to the end comes to rest in doing nothing. He nourishes his nature with calm and settles his spirit in quiet, and so he enters the gate of heaven. What is called heaven is pure and unmixed, plain and simple, straight and white, and has never yet been mingled with anything. What is called man is the one who pairs cleverness with contrivance, crooked and cunning and false, who bows down and looks up before the men of the age and mixes with their custom. So that the ox has a split hoof and wears horns, and the horse has a mane and a whole hoof, is heaven. To put a bridle on the horse's mouth and to pierce the ox's nose is man. He who follows heaven is one who roams with the Way; he who goes after man is one who mixes with custom.

You cannot speak of the great with the fish in the well, for it is shut in by its narrow place. You cannot speak of cold with the summer insect, for it is fixed in its season. You cannot speak of the highest Way with the crooked scholar, for he is shut in by custom and bound by his teaching. So the sage does not let man muddy heaven and does not let desire disorder his feeling. He does not plan, and he hits the mark; he does not speak, and he is trusted; he does not think, and he gets it; he does not act, and it is done. His essence goes through to the storehouse of the spirit, and he is a companion of the maker of transformations.

The good swimmer drowns and the good rider falls. Each, by the very thing he loves, turns it into his own ruin. So the man who loves affairs has never yet failed to meet with disaster, and the man who contends for gain has never yet failed to come to the end of his road. Of old, the strength of Gonggong struck Mount Buzhou and made the earth tilt to the southeast. He contended with Gaoxin to be emperor, and in the end he sank into the deep; his clan was wiped out, his line was cut off, and the sacrifices ceased. King Yi of Yue fled into a cave in the hills, and the men of Yue smoked him out, so that at last he could not help himself. Looking at it this way, gaining lies in the season and not in contending, and governing lies in the Way and not in being a sage. Earth dwells below and does not contend for height, and so it is at rest and not in danger; water flows downward and does not contend for the lead, and so it is swift and never late. Of old, when Shun plowed at Mount Li, within a year the plowmen were contending to take the stony ground and giving up the fat soil to one another; when he fished on the bank of the He, within a year the fishermen were contending to take the rapids and giving the bends and the deep pools to one another. At that time he set out no words with his mouth and pointed with no hand. He held the dark virtue in his heart, and his teaching ran like a spirit. Had Shun been without that will, then though he had argued with his mouth and persuaded them house by house, he could not have changed one man. Therefore the Way that is not called a way, how vast it is! To govern the Three Miao, to bring the Winged People to court, to move the Country of the Naked, to take in the Sushen, to shift the customs and change the manners without giving out an order, surely this is the man who acts with the heart alone! How could laws and punishments be enough to bring it about? Therefore the sage cultivates the root within and does not adorn the branch without. He keeps his spirit whole and lays his cleverness and his contrivance down to rest. Quietly he does nothing, and there is nothing that is not done; calmly he governs nothing, and there is nothing that is not governed. What is called doing nothing is not to act ahead of things; what is called leaving nothing undone is to follow what things do. What is called governing nothing is not to change what is so of itself; what is called leaving nothing ungoverned is to follow how things are with one another.

The ten thousand things have that from which they are born, but he alone knows to keep to the root; the hundred affairs have that from which they come out, but he alone knows to keep to the gate. So he goes to the end of what has no end and reaches the limit of what has no limit. He lights up things and is not dazzled; he answers like an echo and is never at a loss. This is called the unloosing of heaven. So the man who has got the Way is weak in will and strong in affairs, empty in heart and fitting in his answering. To be weak in will and strong in affairs is this: he is soft and quiet, he hides in not daring and walks in not being able, he is calm and has no care, he moves and does not lose the season, he turns and wheels about together with the ten thousand things, he does not call out first but is moved and then answers. Therefore the honored must take the lowly for his title, and the high must take the low for his base. He lodges in the small and so wraps the great; he stays at the center and so governs what is outside; he walks in softness and so is hard; he uses weakness and so is strong; he turns and shifts with the changes, and by getting the Way of the One he sets the many right with the few. To be strong in affairs is this: he meets the sudden turn and answers what comes all at once, he drives off trouble and wards off hardship, his strength overcomes everything, there is no enemy he does not bear down, he answers change and measures the season, and none is able to harm him. Therefore he who would be hard must keep it with softness, and he who would be strong must hold it with weakness. What piles up in softness becomes hard; what piles up in weakness becomes strong. Watch what a man piles up and you know the quarter where his fortune or his ruin lies. The strong overcomes one who is less than himself, and when he comes to his equal they are the same; the soft overcomes one who is greater than himself, and its strength cannot be measured. So the army that is strong is destroyed, the tree that is strong is broken, the hide that is stiff is torn, and the teeth are harder than the tongue and yet wear out first. Therefore the soft and the weak are the trunk of life, and the hard and the strong are the company of death. To call out first is the road to the end of one's road; to move afterward is the source of getting through. How is this known to be so? The middle span of a man's life is seventy years, and yet in his going forward and holding back, in what he points at and what he gathers, he is sorry by the day and by the month until he comes to his death. So Qu Boyu at fifty had forty-nine years of wrong. Why? Because the one who goes first is hard put to know, and the one who comes after finds it easy to strike. If the one in front climbs high, the one behind pulls himself up by him; if the one in front goes over and down, the one behind trips him; if the one in front breaks through and falls, the one behind lays his plan; if the one in front is routed, the one behind keeps clear of his way. Looking at it this way, the one in front is the target for the bow and arrow of the one behind. It is like the butt of a spear and its blade. The blade meets the hard thing and the butt has no trouble. Why? Because it is lodged in the place behind. This the common people of the age all see alike, and yet the worthy and the knowing cannot keep clear of it. To be behind does not mean to be stopped up and not come forth, to be frozen and not flow. What is prized is to go all round the numbers and to meet the season.

When a man holds the pattern of the Way and pairs with change, the one in front governs the one behind, and the one behind governs the one in front. How is this? He does not lose that by which he governs others, and so others cannot govern him. The turning over of the season leaves no room for a breath between. Go before it and you go too far; come after it and you fall short. The sun turns and the moon goes round, and the season does not roam with man. So the sage does not prize a disk of jade a foot across, but holds an inch of shadow heavy, for the season is hard to get and easy to lose. When Yu ran after the season, his shoe slipped off and he did not pick it up, his cap caught and he did not turn to look. He was not contending to be first; he was contending to get the season. Therefore the sage keeps the clear Way and holds the female measure; he goes along with things and answers change, always behind and never in front. He is soft and weak and so is still; he is loose and at ease and so is settled. He strikes the great and grinds down the hard, and none is able to contend with him.

Among the things of all under heaven none is softer or weaker than water. Yet it is so great that it cannot be exhausted and so deep that it cannot be measured. In length it reaches the endless; far off it sinks into the shoreless. Its waxing and its wasting, its taking away and its adding, go through to what cannot be reckoned. Rise to heaven and it is rain and dew; come down to earth and it is moisture. The ten thousand things cannot be born if they do not get it, the hundred affairs cannot be done if they do not get it. It wraps the whole host of the living and has no liking and no hating; its bounty reaches the crawling worm and it seeks no return; it makes all under heaven rich and is not used up; it gives virtue to the people and is not spent; it travels, and no one can come to the end of it; it is fine, and no one can take hold of it; strike it and it takes no wound, stab it and it is not hurt, cut it and it is not severed, burn it and it does not catch; thick and slipping it flows away and escapes; tangled and thrown together it cannot be scattered; its sharpness pierces metal and stone, its strength saves all under heaven; it stirs and melts in the region that has no form and soars above the sudden quarter; it winds about among the streams and the valleys and floods over the fields of the great waste; having too much and having too little, it takes from heaven and earth and gives back to them, and it gives to the ten thousand things with no first and no last. Therefore it has nothing private and nothing public. Brimming and shaking, it runs through together with heaven and earth; it has no left and no right; coiled and twisted, it begins and ends with the ten thousand things. This is called the highest virtue. Now the reason water can bring its highest virtue to pass under heaven is that it is thick and soft and smooth. So the words of Lao Dan say, "The softest thing under heaven gallops over the hardest thing under heaven. It comes out of what has no being and goes in where there is no space. By this I know the profit of doing nothing." Now what has no form is the great ancestor of things, and what has no sound is the great forefather of sounds. Its son is light and its grandson is water, and both were born of what has no form! Now light can be seen but cannot be held, and water can be followed but cannot be broken. So among the kinds that have an image there is none higher than water.

Coming out is life and going in is death. From nothing one goes to something and from something one goes to nothing, and by this one grows worn and low. Therefore the clear and still is the height of virtue, the soft and weak is what is essential in the Way, and the empty and calm and glad is the use of the ten thousand things. Answer what moves you with a grave heart, turn back to the root with a deep heart, and you sink into what has no form. What is called having no form is the One. What is called the One is that which has no match in all under heaven. It stands alone and apart, it dwells alone like a clod; above it goes through the nine heavens and below it runs through the nine wilds; round, it does not fit the compass, and square, it does not fit the try square; greatly mingled, it is one, and the leaves pile up and there is no root. It holds heaven and earth in its bosom and is the gate of the Way. Silent and hidden and dim, pure virtue alone remains. It gives out and is not used up; it is used and does not tire. Therefore look at it and its form is not seen, listen to it and its sound is not heard, follow it and its body is not found. It has no form, and from it what has form is born; it has no sound, and from it the five notes sound; it has no taste, and from it the five tastes take shape; it has no color, and from it the five colors are made. Therefore being is born of nothing and the full comes out of the empty, and all under heaven is the pen for it, and so name and substance live together. The notes are no more than five in number, and yet the changes of the five notes cannot all be heard. The blendings of taste are no more than five, and yet the changes of the five tastes cannot all be tasted. The colors are no more than five in number, and yet the changes of the five colors cannot all be seen. So with the notes, once gong is set the five notes take shape; with the tastes, once the sweet is set the five tastes are fixed; with the colors, once the white is set the five colors are made; with the Way, once the One is set the ten thousand things are born. Therefore the pattern of the One is spread through the four seas and the unloosing of the One reaches heaven and earth. Whole, it is pure as the uncarved block; scattered, it is mingled as the turbid. Turbid, it slowly clears; empty, it slowly fills. Calm, it is like a deep pool; wide, it is like a floating cloud. It seems not to be and yet it is; it seems gone and yet it remains. The whole sum of the ten thousand things passes through one hole; the root of the hundred affairs comes out of one gate. Its moving has no form and its changing is like a spirit; its going leaves no track and it is always behind and yet in front. Therefore in the governing of the utmost man he covers his own keen hearing and sight and puts away his own fine patterns; he leans on the Way and lays cleverness aside, and comes forth from what is public together with the people. He makes fewer the things he keeps and makes less what he seeks; he puts away what lures him and what he longs for; he does away with his relish and his desire; he lessens his thinking and his care. Make fewer the things you keep and you see clearly; make less what you seek and you get it. He who trusts his ears and his eyes to hear and to see wears out his form and is not clear-sighted; he who takes knowing and thinking for governing troubles his heart and has nothing to show. Therefore the sage holds to one measure and follows the track. He does not change what is fitting, he does not alter what is constant; he sets down the level and stretches the marking line, and even for what is crooked he follows what fits it.

Joy and anger are a swerving from the Way; sorrow and grief are a losing of virtue; liking and hating are a fault of the heart; relish and desire are a burden on the nature. When a man is greatly angry he breaks his yin, and when he is greatly glad he casts down his yang; when his breath is thin he loses his voice, and when he is startled and afraid he goes mad; when sorrow and grief bring much rage, sickness gathers and takes hold; when liking and hating are many and troublesome, ruin comes one upon another. So a heart that neither sorrows nor rejoices is the height of virtue; to go through and not be changed is the height of stillness; to carry no relish and no desire is the height of emptiness; to have nothing you like and nothing you hate is the height of peace; not to be scattered among things is the height of purity. A man who can do these five goes through to the bright spirits, and he who goes through to the bright spirits is the man who has got what is within. Therefore govern the outside from the center and the hundred affairs do not fail; if the center can get it, the outside can gather it in. When the center is got, the five organs are at peace, thought is calm, sinew and strength are firm and strong, the ear and the eye are keen. He is open and clear and does not go astray; he is firm and strong and is not broken. There is nothing he greatly oversteps and nothing he falls short of. He dwells in a small place and is not pressed; he dwells in a great place and is not left slack. His soul is not restless and his spirit is not troubled. Clear and still and silent, he becomes the chief of all under heaven.

The great Way is level and broad and is not far from your own body; seek it near at hand and you go and come back again. Press upon it and it can answer; move it and it can stir. Things are deep and have no end, and change has no form and no image. Loose and easy, it gives itself up and lets go, like the echo to the sound and the shadow to the form. Climb high and look down, and do not lose your hold; tread on danger and walk in peril, and do not forget the dark crouching. A man who can keep this does not let his virtue be chipped away, and though the ten thousand things are tangled and mixed, he turns and changes along with them, and he governs all under heaven as a man runs with the wind at his back. This is called the highest virtue, and with the highest virtue there is joy. Among the men of old there were those who lived in a cave in the rocks and did not lose their spirit; in these last ages there are men with the power of ten thousand chariots who grieve and sorrow by the day. Looking at it this way, sagehood does not lie in governing men but in getting the Way, and joy does not lie in wealth and rank but in the harmony of virtue. Hold yourself great and all under heaven small, and you are near the Way. What is called joy, must it be to dwell in the Jing Terrace and the Zhanghua, to roam in Yunmeng and Shaqiu, to hear with the ear the Jiushao and the Liuying, to taste with the mouth what is fried and simmered and fragrant, to gallop along the level road, to hook and shoot the sushuang bird? What I call joy is that a man gets what is his to get. He who gets what is his to get does not take extravagance for joy or plain living for sorrow; he closes together with the yin and opens together with the yang. So Zixia's heart was at war and he grew thin, and when he got the Way he grew stout. The sage does not make his body the servant of things and does not let desire muddy his harmony. Therefore his gladness is not a leaping gladness and his sorrow is not a sunken sorrow; through ten thousand ways and a hundred changes he wanders free and settles nowhere, and alone he is stirred and open-hearted, leaving things behind and coming forth together with the Way. Therefore, if a man has that by which he gets it of himself, the space under a tall tree and the inside of an empty cave are enough to suit his feeling; if he has nothing by which to get it of himself, then though he make all under heaven his house and the ten thousand people his servants and his women, it is not enough to nourish his life. He who can come to where there is no joy has nothing that is not joy, and having nothing that is not joy, he has come to the highest joy.

To set up bells and drums, to range pipes and strings, to spread felt and mats, to hang up yak-tail banners and ivory, to hear with the ear the languid music of Zhaoge and of the northern border, to line up women of soft and slender beauty, to set out the wine and pass the cup, to join the night to the day, to shoot the high birds with a stout crossbow and to chase the crafty hare with running dogs: such joy as this blazes and glitters, and a man is startled at it, as though something lured him and drew him on. Then unhitch the carriage and rest the horses, stop the wine and take the music away, and of a sudden his heart is as though it had lost something, and he is downcast, as though something had gone from him. How is this? He does not make the inside enjoy the outside, but makes the outside enjoy the inside. The music strikes up and he is glad, the tune ends and he is sad; sadness and gladness turn about and give birth to each other, and his spirit is thrown into confusion and cannot be at peace for a moment. Look into the reason for it and no form is found, and day by day it harms his life: he has lost what was his to get. Therefore what a man does not get within at the center, but takes from outside to adorn himself with, does not soak into his skin, does not seep into his marrow, does not stay in his heart and will, does not settle in his five organs. So what comes in from outside does not stop, if there is no master at the center; what comes out from the center does not go forward, if there is nothing outside to answer it. So when men hear good words and handy plans, even the foolish know to be pleased with them; when the highest virtue and lofty conduct are praised, even the unworthy know to long for them. Those who are pleased are many and those who use them are few; those who long for them are many and those who walk in them are few. Why is this so? Because they cannot turn back to their own nature. A man who is not open within at the center and forces himself to study and to ask does not take it in at the ear and it does not stick to his heart. How is this different from the singing of a deaf man? He copies another and does it and has nothing in it to enjoy of himself, and the sound comes out of his mouth and overflows and is scattered.

The heart is the master of the five organs. It governs and employs the four limbs, it makes the blood and the breath flow, it gallops over the ground of right and wrong, and it goes in and out at the gates of the hundred affairs. Therefore for a man not to have got it in his heart and yet to have the spirit to govern all under heaven is like wishing to tune bells and drums with no ears, or to delight in fine patterns with no eyes: he is surely not equal to what he takes on. So all under heaven is a vessel of spirit and cannot be forced; he who forces it ruins it, and he who grasps it loses it. Now Xu You held all under heaven small and would not trade himself for Yao, because his will had let all under heaven go. Why was this so? Because he made all under heaven out of all under heaven itself. What is essential in all under heaven is not over there but in me, not in others but in my own body, and when the body has got it, the ten thousand things are complete. Go right through the discourse on the arts of the heart, and relish and desire and liking and hating are put outside. Therefore there is nothing he is glad at and nothing he is angry at, nothing he takes joy in and nothing he suffers from. The ten thousand things are darkly one; there is no wrong and no right; transforming and rearing shine darkly, and he lives as though dead.

All under heaven is mine, and I too belong to all under heaven. Between all under heaven and me, what space is there! Must the man who has all under heaven grasp power and hold force, take the handle of killing and sparing, and so carry out his orders? What I call having all under heaven is not this; it is only to get it of oneself. Get it of yourself, and all under heaven gets you too. When I and all under heaven get each other, each always has the other, and what could there be, between me and it, that is not taken in! What is called getting it of oneself is keeping one's own body whole, and keeping the body whole, one becomes one with the Way. So a man may roam on the river bank and at the edge of the sea, gallop the Yaoniao horse, raise a kingfisher canopy, watch with his eye the dances of the Diaoyu and the Wuxiang, hear with his ear sounds that surge and ring, strange and lovely and stirring, strike up the broad music of Zheng and Wei, tie in the lingering airs of the Jichu, shoot the high birds at the edge of the pool and chase the running beasts in the park. This is what makes the common people run wild and sink and drown, but when the sage dwells among these things, they are not enough to trouble his spirit or to disorder his breath and his will, or to make his heart start up and lose its feeling and its nature. Or he may dwell in a far corner of the country, at the side of a stream and a valley, hidden in the thicket and the brush, in a room with one ring of wall, thatched with living grass, with a door of woven weeds and a window of a jar's mouth, a mulberry branch bent for a door pivot, leaking above and damp below, the wet soaking through to the north room, snow and frost piling up, the many rushes drenched; and he may wander in the middle of the wide marsh and roam beside the mountain gorge. This is what makes the common people grow black and withered in their form, grieving and sorrowing and never getting their will; but when the sage dwells in it, he does not become worn with care or resentful, and he does not lose that by which he takes joy in himself. How is this? Within, he has that by which he goes through to the working of heaven, and he does not lose his will and his virtue for rank or lowliness, for poverty or wealth, for toil or ease. So the caw-caw of the crow and the chak-chak of the magpie, did they ever change their cry for cold or heat, for dry or damp! Therefore when the getting of the Way is already settled, a man does not wait upon the shifting of the ten thousand things, and he does not settle what makes him get it of himself by the change of one hour. What I call getting is that the true state of nature and destiny dwells where it is at ease.

Nature and destiny come out of their ancestor together with the form; when the form is complete, nature and destiny are made, and when nature and destiny are made, liking and hating are born. So the scholar has a discourse that is once settled and the woman has conduct she does not change, and compass and try square cannot make them square or round, hook and marking line cannot make them bent or straight. As for the everlastingness of heaven and earth, climb a hill and you cannot make it longer, stay in a low place and you cannot make it shorter. Therefore the man who has got the Way is not cowed when he is in straits and is not puffed up when he gets through; he dwells high and is not shaken, he holds what is full and does not tip over, he is new and does not glitter, he is old and does not change, he goes into fire and is not scorched, he goes into water and is not soaked. Therefore he does not wait on power to be honored, does not wait on wealth to be rich, does not wait on strength to be strong; level and empty, he flows downward and soars along with the transforming power. Such a man hides his gold in the mountain and his pearl in the deep; he does not count goods and wealth a profit and does not covet power and a name. Therefore he does not take ease for joy or want for sorrow, he does not take honor for safety or lowliness for danger, and form and spirit, breath and will, each dwell where they fit, and so he follows what heaven and earth do. Now the form is the house of life, the breath is the filling of life, and the spirit is the rule of life. If one of them loses its place, all three are harmed. Therefore the sage makes each of them dwell in its own place and keep its own office, so that they cannot encroach upon one another. So if the form is set where it is not at ease, it fails; if the breath is used where it does not belong, it leaks away; if the spirit is made to act where it does not suit, it grows dark. These three must be guarded with care.

All the ten thousand things under heaven, the crawling insects and the creeping and stirring creatures, all know what they like and what they hate, what helps them and what harms them. Why is this? Because their nature is there in them and does not leave them; let it suddenly go, and bone and flesh have no order left. Now that a man can open his eyes and see, can bend his ear and hear, that his body can hold itself up and his hundred joints can bend and stretch, that his looking can part white from black and see the ugly from the fair, that his knowing can part the same from the different and make clear the right from the wrong: why is this? Because breath fills him and spirit employs him. How is this known to be so? When a man's will is fixed on something and his spirit is tied to it, then as he walks his foot stumbles in a pit and his head strikes a standing tree and he does not know it himself; beckon him and he cannot see, call to him and he cannot hear. His ears and his eyes have not gone from him, and yet he cannot answer. Why? Because his spirit has lost its watch. So when he is in the small he forgets the great, when he is at the center he forgets the outside, when he is above he forgets below, when he is at the left he forgets the right. But when there is nothing it does not fill, there is nowhere it is not. Therefore the man who prizes emptiness makes the tip of a hair his house.

Now when a madman cannot keep clear of the danger of water and fire and cannot get across a ditch or a drain, is it that he has no form and spirit, no breath and will? It is that he uses them otherwise. He has lost the place that they keep and has left the house within and without, and so his bearing cannot be fitting and his moving and his resting cannot hit the mark. All his life he carries his withered form about the gate of ridge upon ridge and bank upon bank, and stumbles and falls into the foul gully and the pit; and though his life is the same as other men's, he does not escape being killed and being laughed at by others. Why? Because form and spirit have lost each other. So the man who makes the spirit master has his form follow and profit by it; the man who makes the form the rule has his spirit follow and be harmed by it. The greedy man of many desires is driven along by power and gain and is lured and drawn by name and place. He hopes with a cleverness beyond other men to set himself up high in the age, and so his spirit is worn away by the day and grows ever farther off; long sunk in it, it does not come back, and when the form is shut and the center is barred, the spirit has no way to come in. This is why there are sometimes under heaven the troubles of blindness and folly and losing oneself. This is of a kind with the tallow candle: the more the fire burns, the faster it melts away. Now the spirit and the breath and the will: he who is still and fills up by the day grows strong, and he who is restless and is worn away by the day grows old. Therefore the sage would nourish his spirit, harmonize and soften his breath, and level his form, and he sinks and floats and bows down and looks up together with the Way; when he is calm he lets it go, and when he is pressed he uses it. His letting go is like laying down a robe; his using is like releasing a crossbow. In this way there is no change among the ten thousand things that he does not meet, and no turn among the hundred affairs that he does not answer.