Liezi learned archery from Guan Yinzi and once hit the bullseye. He went to ask Guan Yinzi for guidance, saying, "Have I learned enough?" Guan Yinzi said, "Do you know why you hit the bullseye?" Liezi replied, "I don't know." Guan Yinzi said, "Not yet." Liezi went back to practice. Three years later, he returned to Guan Yinzi for instruction. Guan Yinzi asked again, "Do you know why you hit the bullseye?" Liezi replied, "I know." Guan Yinzi said, "That's good. Hold onto it and don't lose it. This applies not only to archery, but also to governing a country and oneself. Therefore, the sage does not concern himself with survival or destruction, but examines the reasons why."

Liezi learned archery from Guan Yinzi. Once, Liezi hit the bullseye. He went to ask Guan Yinzi for guidance, saying, "Have I learned enough?" Guan Yinzi said, "Do you know why you hit the bullseye?" Liezi replied, "I don't know." Guan Yinzi said, "If you don't know the reason, you haven't truly learned." Liezi went back to practice. Three years later, Liezi returned to ask Guan Yinzi for guidance again. Guan Yinzi asked again, "Do you know why you hit the bullseye?" Liezi said, "I understand." Guan Yinzi said, "Now you can. Master the principles of hitting the target, and strictly demand of yourself, and you will hit the target every time. This applies not only to archery, but also to governing a country and self-cultivation. Therefore, the sage does not concern himself with the result, but focuses on clearly understanding the entire process."

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Moral of the Story

This fable tells us that whether learning or doing things, we must not only know what to do, but also why we do it.

Xi Shi suffered from a heart ailment and frowned in her village. An ugly woman in the village saw this and thought it beautiful, so she went home and also clutched her heart and frowned. The rich people in the village, seeing this, firmly shut their doors and refused to come out; the poor people, seeing this, took their wives and children and fled. They knew that frowning was beautiful, but they did not know why it was beautiful.

(Vernacular Translation)

Xi Shi, a woman from the state of Yue during the Spring and Autumn Period, is one of the "Four Beauties" in Chinese history. She was not only beautiful but also virtuous, hardworking and kind, and everyone liked her. However, Xi Shi suffered from a heart ailment. One day, her illness flared up again. She clutched her chest, frowned, and looked very uncomfortable. The villagers, however, praised her, saying that her frowning made her even more beautiful than usual. In the same village lived a very ugly woman named Dong Shi. She heard others say that Xi Shi looked beautiful when she clutched her chest and frowned, so she imitated Xi Shi, clutching her chest and frowning as she walked around in front of people, thinking that this would earn her praise for her beauty. However, the passersby on the street were terrified by her appearance and hid away; no one dared to approach her.

Moral of the Story

Blindly imitating others without considering one's own reality often leads to the opposite of what one desires.

Life Lesson

Although Dong Shi was ugly, if she hadn't acted pretentiously, people wouldn't have disliked her. In fact, everyone has their own unique characteristics; don't abandon yourself and blindly follow others.

There was once a man in the State of Song who was skilled at concocting a remedy to prevent chapped hands. His family had made their living by washing clothes for generations. A visitor, hearing of this, offered to buy the formula for one hundred taels of gold. The family gathered and discussed, saying, “We have been washing clothes for generations, earning only a few taels of gold each. Now, in one day, we can sell our skill for one hundred taels of gold; let us give it to them.” The visitor obtained the formula and used it to persuade the King of Wu. When Yue faced trouble, the King of Wu appointed him as general. In winter, he fought a naval battle with the Yue people, decisively defeating them and being rewarded with land. The difference lies in the method used: preventing chapped hands is the same thing, yet some are rewarded while others are still subject to chapped hands.

(Vernacular Translation)

In ancient times, there was a family in the State of Song who could concoct a remedy to prevent chapped hands. Their family had made their living by washing clothes for generations. A visitor, hearing of this, offered to buy the formula for one hundred taels of gold. So the whole family gathered together and discussed, "We've made our living washing clothes for generations, earning hardly any money in a year. Now, selling this formula will earn us a hundred taels of gold at once. I think we should agree." The man obtained the formula and went to the King of Wu to recommend himself for an official position. Coincidentally, the Yue army launched an attack on Wu, and the King of Wu sent him to lead the army in retaliation. In winter, his army fought a naval battle against the Yue army. Because of the formula, the Wu soldiers' hands wouldn't crack, and they defeated the Yue army. The King of Wu then granted him a piece of land and made him a feudal lord. The same medicine that prevents cracked hands—some people can use it to obtain land and be made feudal lords, while others can only use it for washing clothes generation after generation. This is because they used it in different ways!

Moral of the story:

The usefulness of something is not absolute. The same thing used in different places will have different effects. Therefore, we should pay attention to making the best use of people's talents and resources.

Lessons for Growth

The Song Dynasty family in the story, though skilled at making a remedy for chapped hands, failed to utilize this skill effectively, thus remaining subsistent on washing clothes for generations. Meanwhile, the person who purchased the secret recipe was able to use it to gain land and a noble title. The same applies to us in life; everyone should make good use of their strengths and advantages, allowing them to play their proper role.

Moral of the Story

This fable satirizes those who lack self-awareness and overestimate their abilities.

Inspiration for Growth

The praying mantis in the story, because it didn't know its own strength, only knew how to move forward and not backward, and was therefore crushed. This teaches us that we should have self-awareness and act within our capabilities. We should not force ourselves to do things beyond our abilities, otherwise we will only fail.

Dusk

Text: Ji Xianlin

Dusk is mysterious. As long as people live one more day, at the end of that day, they will have a dusk. But years roll on, months roll on, and they live for countless days, thus experiencing countless dusks. I ask: how many people are aware of the existence of this dusk?

In the morning, when the lingering dreams fly away from their pillows, they awaken and begin their day's journey. They walk and walk until noon, when the road suddenly turns downward. It seems as if in a flash, they have reached the end of the day. When they see the distant white haze, the treetops faintly painted with a golden hue, and flocks of crows carrying the sunlight back, it feels as if something gently presses on their hearts. They know: night has come. They yearn for rest; they yearn for the arrival of dreams.

Soon, the thin darkness of night blurs their eyes, and blurs their hearts as well. They bustled about in their cramped little house, shutting out the twilight. If someone were to ask, "Have you seen the twilight?" The twilight was beautiful, but they would be bewildered. How could they not be bewildered? When they peeked out again to search for the twilight, it had already vanished with the disappearance of the white haze, the gold on the treetops, and the sunlight on the crows' backs. Only the hazy night remained. This twilight, like a fleeting dream of a spring night, had infiltrated their hearts unnoticed, and then vanished just as quickly.

Twilight is gone. Where did it go? —No, I ask first: Where did twilight come from? I cannot say. And who can say? I cannot grasp a handful of twilight to ask it the truth.

From the east? The east is where the sun rises. From the west? Isn't the west ablaze with red clouds? From the south? The south is filled only with light and heat; it seems most fitting to say it came from the north.

If we broaden our thinking, to the northernmost point, the Arctic Ocean, we can imagine a vast expanse of white, a boundless snowfield, and endless icebergs. Further north, on the white horizon, it's impossible to distinguish sky from earth, ice from snow—just a hazy, greyish-white expanse. Shouldn't the hazy, greyish-white twilight emerge from here? Yet, having emerged, it spreads further. It sweeps across the plains and grasslands, leaving a shadow; it sweeps across the forests, leaving a somber darkness; it sweeps across the streams, dissolving the deep grey twilight into the murmuring water, the surface shimmering faintly in the stillness; it sweeps across the mountaintops, leaving them with starlight and moonlight; it sweeps across the villages, leaving behind a hazy, lingering mist… tearing a piece from every corner, ensnaring every spiderweb. Then, it sweeps across the desolate desert, arriving in our own land.

I can imagine: if I stood in the desert at dusk, I would watch the twilight rush in from the distant horizon, like—like what? Perhaps like a hazy white mist? Or like a spreading cloud? It comes, leaving only a shadow, then rushes away, arriving in our land, following the distant white haze, the pale gold on the treetops, and the sunlight on the backs of the crows, gently landing on people's hearts, only to be shut out again.

But outside, regardless of people's concern, it lonely, desolately, arranges a magical, poetic fairytale world for them, hazy and dim, like a reflection in a mirror, painting everything with the silvery-gray hues of a dream.

The milky air seems to solidify as if it were real milk. Yet, it also seems to flow softly, stickily, and thickly. It brought a stillness; listen: everything is quiet, like the dead of night during a heavy snowfall. But is it deathly still? Not at all; any more silence would have made it a grave-like stillness. It seems neither too much nor too little, a beautiful, gentle stillness, soft, sticky, and thick, pressing down on people's hearts. The gray sky is like a thin curtain; trees, houses, wisps of smoke, and clouds are like silhouettes, quietly pasted onto this curtain. Here, there, dotted with the purple glow of the sunset and the cold light of small stars.

Twilight is truly like a poem, a song, a fairy tale; like the melodious flute music drifting from a moonlit tower, the cry of a crane echoing in the sky; like Shaoxing wine aged for decades; like everything beautiful beyond words. Unable to be described, one can only see; seeing is not enough, one can only understand; understanding is not enough, one can only admire—yet ultimately, it is shut out from people.

Shut out from people—is that what I mean? I must be careful, because what we call "people" is not all people, and will never be all people.

In my childhood, I often stayed in the courtyard waiting for dusk to arrive. I say this not to suggest I was better than others. The meaning is simple: others didn't do it, or were unwilling to do it. I (and others, of course) simply happened to do it often.

Often in summer, I sat on a low stool, watching the corners of the walls gradually darken, a faint layer of shadow covering the surrounding white walls. In the gloom, the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine permeated my heart. Bats flew in the sky. Spiderwebs on the eaves, reflected in the gray sky, and in the hazy light, I could count the lines on the webs and the dead mosquitoes and flies stuck to them. Suddenly, I would look up again, and the dark gray sky was already studded with twinkling little stars.

In winter, the courtyard was covered with white snow. I huddled inside. When I see the white window paper gradually turn gray, and the flames in the stove, which are less vibrant in daylight, gradually redden and brighten, I know: it is dusk. I look out through the crack in the door: a gray sky, gray rooftops covered in snow. A pale crescent moon hangs in the sky, somewhat desolate, yet still unable to conceal the beauty of dusk. At this time, even those who often sit in the courtyard waiting for its arrival must huddle indoors. Only the gray snow accompanies its desolation outside the door; for whom is this ever-changing, hazy world created? Doesn't dusk feel lonely?

But loneliness doesn't last long. Dusk still has to leave. Li Shangyin's poem says, "The setting sun is infinitely beautiful, but it's near dusk." Doesn't the poet lament the impermanence of dusk? It truly cannot linger; in the blink of an eye, dusk, like a fleeting dream, only brushes across people's hearts, leaving behind the dark night, carrying its loneliness away.

Gone, truly gone. Now let me ask again: Where has dusk gone? I know this better than I know where it came from. I cannot grasp dusk's tail and ask it where it is.

But, assuming it came from the north, it must be going south. Who says it isn't going south? I saw how it went—over the south wall; over the southern hill, over the forest; over the beautiful south. All the way to vast Africa. Africa has towering mountains; on the mountains are deep, ancient, dark forests.

Thinking further, there are tigers in the forest. Tigers? Dusk has come, and the eyes that only show a pale green glow in the daytime should light up. Don't they look like two lamps? There should also be lush, wild grass in the forest, taller than a person. In the grass are lions, large mosquitoes, large spiders, and bats, larger than ordinary bats. The last rays of the setting sun pierced through the sparse leaves and the spiderwebs hanging from the branches, casting brilliant golden streaks that bathed the entire forest in a reddish-brown hue. These rays mingled with the venomous breath of snakes lurking beneath the grass, creating a dazzling, iridescent mist.

There should be fireflies, shouldn't there? Now they twinkle. There should be flowers, too; but it shouldn't be night-blooming jasmine or tuberose. What is it? All those poisonous, beautiful, and evil flowers. Shouldn't evil flowers be born in this poisonous atmosphere? The fragrance of these flowers slowly dissolved into the reddish-brown air, into the dazzling mist. It churned into a chaotic mass; it rolled into a warm, cozy cloud. But soon this warmth was dissolved by the approaching night. Only the twinkling fireflies remained, now growing ever brighter. The tiger's eyes, now like two lamps, silently gazed at the stars that had just begun to appear in the dark gray sky.

Yet here, dusk still departs. Where does it go next? No one truly knows. Does it climb into the dark sky with the pale, sparse, cold moonlight? Does it climb to the Milky Way with the peeking stars? Does it slip under the eaves, pressing down on the wings of bats? Does it melt behind the distant mountains with the rosy glow of the western sky? Who can truly know? All we know is that it's gone, taking its loneliness and beauty with it, like a wisp of smoke, like a fleeting dream of a spring night. Gone—now, now what can I ask? Wait for tomorrow? Tomorrow comes, and tomorrow again, and tomorrow again. When people see the distant white haze, the treetops lightly painted with gold, and flocks of crows carrying the sunlight back, it's as if something weighs on their hearts; they yearn for the arrival of dreams. The door is closed. Dusk remains closed inside and out, and when they peek out again, dusk is already gone. It came from the Arctic Ocean, passed through, and disappeared into the African forest. And then, and where else, who knows? But night comes: a long, dark night, a night shimmering with starlight and moonlight, a night filled with subtle fragrance…

Only the night, the long night, the night never ends. And dusk? —Dusk never exists in people's hearts. It vanishes in a fleeting moment, like a fleeting dream of a spring night.