Taoism 02 — Literal Translation Version

Now let us look at the tenth account. Here is another example. In *Taoism and Immortals* it says that Laozi’s father had the surname Li and the name Wuguo, and that his mother had the surname Yin and the name Yishou. It says Laozi was born in Qurenli, Lixiang, Ku County of Chu; that he lived on the sunny side of Mount Qi and the shady side of the Wei River; that when he saw the Zhou declining he withdrew from office, left Zhou, went out through the frontier pass, and transformed the western barbarians; and that Confucius once traveled through Zhou to ask Laozi about ritual. The teacher then pauses to explain the old terms for *yin* and *yang* here.

He says that in this usage *yin* means the west side and *yang* the east side. “Western Earl” refers to King Wen. According to this account, Laozi served as keeper of the archives through the reigns of King Cheng and King Kang, and only left Zhou in the time of King Zhao. The word translated here as “driver” means what we would now call a coachman or driver. Thus he left Zhou and went out through the pass. “Going out through the pass” means going beyond China; in older speech the foreign border peoples were called *Hu*, while *Xia* meant China itself.

It also says that Confucius came to Laozi to ask about ritual. The teacher then gives two notes. The first refers to an appended chronological table of Chinese and foreign history. King You of Zhou came to the throne in 781 BCE and died in 771 BCE, ruling eleven years. If this account were correct, then Laozi would already have returned to China by 1134 BCE and would have been five or six hundred years old. That is exactly why the teacher says he must examine the claim carefully. “Manweng” is his religious name, and he jokes that because he is only a foolish old man, he dares not make careless judgments. He then notes that Confucius was born in 551 BCE.

The ninth year of Duke Ding of Lu was 501 BCE, which was also the nineteenth year of King Jing of Zhou. Confucius was fifty-one that year. If we say that Confucius went to ask Laozi about ritual in that year, then according to the previous account Laozi would already have been more than eight hundred years old. The teacher says plainly: that is nonsense. So we have to test these claims against the *Shiji*. If Laozi had already returned during the time of King You, then Confucius had not even been born yet—how could he have gone to ask him about ritual? That is the problem, and it cannot be solved without textual investigation. Still, the legends continue.

Before speaking on the *Dao De Jing*, we must thoroughly understand who Laozi was, where he was born, and where he later went. This has to be examined bit by bit. There are eleven traditions in all; ten have already been presented, and one more remains to be examined later. Historical research proceeds in exactly this way. All serious investigators work slowly like this. If you do not investigate, your claims can become absurd—such as saying Laozi was born from an armpit or from a rib. Judged by science, philosophy, or medicine, such stories simply do not hold up. The chest contains the lungs, not the organs of childbirth; how could anyone be born from there?

This is a serious problem. If you merely describe unusual features—say, a broad forehead, small eyes, large ears, or a square mouth—that may still be imaginable. But if you tell me he was born from an armpit or a rib, the teacher says he cannot believe it at all. Only a very superstitious person would accept that without question. Our concern here is the *Dao De Jing*, and the *Dao De Jing* was written by Laozi. So first we must understand what kind of person Laozi actually was, because the stories about his life differ in more than ten ways. The teacher adds that one weakness in the old Taoist tradition was its stress on self-effacement to the point that basic biography was neglected.

People would say, “I do not even know my own birthday,” and if someone asked, they would answer casually. So in old times Taoists often left dates vague, and as a result the lives of many Taoist patriarchs were never clearly recorded. We have already gone through ten accounts. Having finished the tenth from *Taoism and Immortals*, tonight we now move on to the eleventh, still drawn from Taoist hagiographical sources. On the board the teacher has written: “Laozi, style name Boyang, was the son of the perfected man Li Longfei.”

It then says that he served as *zhuxiashi* under the Western Earl, King Wen, and in King Wu’s time became archivist of the storehouse. Here the teacher says it is necessary to explain the title *zhuxiashi*. The *Cihai* says it was an office of the Zhou, equivalent to the Han title *shiyushi*, an imperial censor. The *Shiji Suoyin* also says that both Zhou and Qin had such officers, and because they stood and served beneath the palace pillars, the office was called “historian beneath the pillar.” The teacher says the later Han title can be explained more fully in a moment. The *Cihai* adds that this office oversaw five departments: the department of ordinances and laws, the department of seals, the department of sacrifices, the department of stables, and the department of carriages.

The teacher then explains the matter in plain speech. *Shiyushi* is the name of an official office. In Zhou terms, one could call it *zhuxiashi*—literally, an officer stationed beneath the pillars. Its responsibilities were those five divisions. The first, the ordinances office, managed state decrees and laws. The second, the seals office, managed the engraving and custody of official seals.

He gives a modern comparison. If an organization like ours applies to the government today, it cannot simply carve its own official seal; doing so would count as forgery. The seal must be issued and registered by the proper authorities. At every level of government, from county magistrates upward, official seals are controlled and cannot be moved around casually. If an emperor died and the crown prince ascended the throne, the transfer and preparation of the imperial seals would also have to be managed. These are not private seals of common people, but the seals of public office. The third department was the sacrificial office, which handled ritual offerings.

When the court wished to sacrifice in the ancestral temple, that too passed through his office. The fourth department handled the horses; military horses had to be kept in good condition, and illness among them had to be reported. The fifth, the carriage office, managed the emperor’s vehicles and ceremonial carriages. So this censorial office was an important position close to the emperor himself. Almost everything passed through its hands. That is why the text says Laozi served as the Zhou *zhuxiashi*. *Daojia dian shenxian* is the name of the book being cited, and *Taoism and Immortals* gives much the same account: Laozi’s style name was Boyang; his father was named Li Longfei; in the late Shang, when King Wen was still the Western Earl, Laozi served him as *zhuxiashi*, and only later became archivist of the storehouse.

The storehouse, the teacher says, was the place where the ruler’s books and records were kept—something like the Palace Museum or national archives in modern terms. So this is the eleventh account from *Daojia dian shenxian*. What is written on the board is only for reference; now the teacher wants to test it critically. One version says Laozi’s mother was called the Mysterious Jade Maiden, and that he was born in the gengchen year, the twenty-fourth year of King Wuding of Yin. But the tenth account had said he was born in the yichou year, the ninth year of Wuding. That alone creates a gap of fifteen or sixteen years. The teacher jokes that his own religious name means something like “Old Fool,” because while others struggle to make money, he seems to struggle for the sake of not making money. After that joke, he draws a simple conclusion from the eleven accounts examined so far. First: the names of Laozi’s parents are inconsistent. Accounts one through five do not name them at all. The sixth mentions them, but differs from the later versions.

The seventh and eighth accounts do not mention the parents’ names. The ninth does not clearly name the father either, and only says something about the mother. The tenth says the father was Li Wuguo and the mother Yin Yishou. The eleventh says the father was Li Longfei, but gives no clear name for the mother. That is the first point: the names of the parents vary from source to source. The second point is that Laozi’s birth date is equally inconsistent. The first five accounts do not mention it at all. Some sources say he was born in the dingsi year, the third year of King Ding of Zhou; others say in the yichou year, the ninth year of Shang king Wuding. That creates a gap of more than a century.

If you calculate on that basis, then by the time Confucius asked Laozi about ritual, Laozi would already have been over a thousand years old. How could that be possible? A moment’s thought shows that it does not work. So questions like this must still be examined point by point. The teacher says that ordinary books may not reveal Laozi’s true origins, and so the author of the source being used appealed to Patriarch Lü Chunyang for a more satisfactory explanation. Now the lecture turns to Lü Chunyang’s account of Laozi’s true life. It says: “Laozi was a man of Qurenli in Lixiang. His surname was Li. He was a distinguished descendant of Lao Tong, and his line belonged to the office of legal administrators; in antiquity the characters *li* and *Li* were interchangeable. His mother was of such-and-such a clan.”

It continues: “She gave birth to Laozi in the xinsi year, the sixth year of King Jian of Zhou, on the fifteenth day of the third month. Later generations called him Laozi. By the thirty-ninth year of King Jing of Zhou, when Confucius traveled about and asked Laozi about ritual, one can see that Laozi truly was a sage of his age.” The teacher says there are four notes here that need explanation.

The first note, from the *Xiujulu*, says that the Lao lineage descended from Zhuanxu.

According to the *Cihai*, Zhuanxu was an ancient sovereign and a grandson of the Yellow Emperor. That is the quick way to put it. The second note, again using the *Cihai*, gives another explanation: the descendants of Gao Yao served generation after generation as officials of justice; because an official office could give its name to a clan, and because the characters *li* and *Li* were interchangeable in antiquity, Laozi’s family took the surname Li because his ancestors belonged to the office of legal administration. The teacher explains this in plain terms: the surname Li may have grown out of the title of *li*-official.

The *Kangxi Dictionary* also says that officers administering punishments could be called *si li* or *si Li*. In modern terms, such men were something like judges. Because Laozi’s forebears served for generations in those legal offices, the family later used Li as its surname. The third note from the *Cihai* says that in ancient books a teacher could be called *zi*, “Master.” In other words, a teacher of virtue and learning could be honored with that title. So the “zi” in Laozi is an honorific, not his personal name.

Patriarch Lü Chunyang’s meaning, then, is that Laozi came from Qurenli in Lixiang of Ku County; that his personal name was Er and his style name Dan; that because his ancestors were officials of legal administration, his surname became Li; that he was descended from Lao Tong; that his mother was named Yishou; and that he was born on the fifteenth day of the third month in a xinsi year. If you continue this reckoning down to the thirty-ninth year of King Jing of Zhou—which is also the ninth year of Duke Ding of Lu, a gengzi year—Confucius would be exactly fifty-one, and Laozi exactly eighty. Then Confucius’s visit to ask Laozi about ritual fits together. On this reckoning Laozi was eighty, counted in traditional East Asian age.

Some people will ask: did not Confucius begin teaching when he was still quite young? How can you say that he only came to self-realization at fifty-one? The teacher says this is not said casually; it has textual support. In the *Analects* Confucius says, “At fifteen I set my heart on learning; at thirty I stood firm; at forty I was free of confusion; at fifty I knew Heaven’s mandate; at sixty my ear was obedient; at seventy I could follow my heart’s desire without transgressing the bounds.” At fifteen, he says, Confucius set himself on the Way. At thirty he could stand on his own. At forty he was no longer confused by worldly fame and profit. At fifty he knew Heaven’s mandate, and if one reads this through the *Doctrine of the Mean*—“What Heaven mandates is called nature”—then it means he came to know his own true nature. So in that sense Confucius only recognized his nature at fifty.

If one counts by traditional age, then saying that he “saw his nature” at fifty-one also makes sense. “At sixty the ear was obedient” means that praise and blame no longer disturbed his mind. “At seventy I followed my heart without transgressing” means he would not commit even the slightest error, but naturally stayed within the norm. So according to Patriarch Lü’s explanation, Confucius went to ask Laozi about ritual at fifty-one, and only then truly saw his nature. The teacher says this does have support. Last time the lecture stopped at this point because it had grown late; this session continues by explaining the same passage more clearly. Some people doubt it: can it really be true that Confucius was still not fully awakened in his fifties, and only came to that through meeting Laozi? But, the teacher says, teaching, discussing doctrine, and realizing one’s nature are not the same thing and should not be confused.

Without evidence, he says, others will certainly criticize—and in Taiwan there are many learned people, so one cannot speak carelessly. That is why he cites the “Tianyun” chapter of the *Zhuangzi* as proof. The basic sense there is that Confucius, at the age of fifty-one, had still not truly “heard the Way,” and so he went to see Lao Dan. After he returned, his disciples asked him, “Master, when you went to see Lao Dan, did you still intend to correct him?” Confucius replied, “Only today have I truly seen a dragon. The dragon gathers itself into one body, then scatters into patterned forms; it rides the clouds and is nourished within yin and yang. I was left open-mouthed in amazement—how could I possibly be fit to correct Lao Dan?”

The teacher adds several notes. First, the “hearing” in “hearing the Way” does not just mean hearing with the ears. It can mean reaching the Way, seeing the Way, or, in Buddhist language, seeing one’s nature. So the passage means that before fifty-one Confucius had not yet truly attained the Way. Second, the word “correct” means to rectify another person by principle or by rule. So the disciples are really asking: when you went to meet Laozi, did you still think you could straighten him out?

The teacher also notes that some characters in the passage are ancient variants and need not be read too rigidly. The phrase about the mouth hanging open means being so astonished that one cannot even close it again. So the sense of the *Zhuangzi* is clear: at fifty-one Confucius had not yet fully seen his nature, and therefore went to see Laozi. After meeting him, he was overwhelmed with admiration. He returned to Lu and for three days did not speak, as if stunned. When his disciples asked whether he still thought he could correct Laozi, Confucius answered only this: “Today I have seen a dragon.” In that image, Laozi appears as something beyond ordinary measure.

That, the teacher says, shows both Laozi’s greatness and the fact that Confucius only fully saw his own nature after meeting him. Some object that Confucius was already a sage—what evidence is there for saying that he only reached this point at fifty-one? So the teacher again compares the *Analects*. In the “Weizheng” chapter it plainly says: “At fifteen I set my heart on learning; at thirty I stood firm; at forty I had no doubts; at fifty I knew Heaven’s mandate; at sixty my ear was obedient; at seventy I could follow my heart without crossing the line.” The *Doctrine of the Mean* says, “What Heaven mandates is called nature.” So “knowing Heaven’s mandate” at fifty means knowing one’s own nature at fifty. Thus the *Zhuangzi* saying that he saw his nature at fifty-one and the *Analects* saying that he knew Heaven’s mandate at fifty agree with one another.

The teacher then says that Confucius’s praise of Laozi as like a dragon is also recorded in the *Shiji*, in the biography of Laozi. He quotes another passage for reference: when Confucius went to Zhou to ask Laozi about ritual, Laozi said to him, “Those ancients you speak of—their persons and bones have already decayed; only their words remain. When a gentleman finds his time, he rides forth; when he does not, he goes on as if borne along by tangled weeds. I have also heard that a good merchant stores his goods deeply and seems empty, while a gentleman of abundant virtue appears outwardly dull. Get rid of your pride, your many desires, your affected bearing, and your excessive ambitions. None of these are of any benefit to you. This is all I have to tell you.”

The teacher explains. Confucius went from Lu to Zhou to ask about ritual, while Laozi was serving there in office. Zhou was the Son of Heaven’s domain, and Lu only a feudal state, so Confucius made a special journey to seek Laozi’s instruction. Laozi’s meaning was that the ancient sages and political models Confucius kept talking about were already gone; their bones had long since rotted, and only their words survived. He was warning Confucius not to become too absorbed in political argument and worldly concerns. He wanted to wake him up.

Then comes the saying, “A good merchant stores deeply and seems empty; a gentleman of great virtue appears foolish.” The teacher explains that a truly capable merchant does not display all his skill on the surface, but seems to have nothing special. The same is true of the noble person. Someone with high virtue appears plain and modest and does not flaunt sharpness or brilliance. So Laozi was telling Confucius to cast off pride, many desires, showy bearing, and overreaching ambition. Here “excess” does not mean sexual excess in particular, but desires and ambitions that have become too strong. If all day long you are thinking about ruling the state and building worldly achievements, those concerns become too heavy and do not help spiritual cultivation. Laozi was telling Confucius to drop that proud and outwardly forceful stance. Judging from this passage, Confucius in his younger days was not free of pride and had strong political aspirations. Yet once Laozi pointed this out, he understood at once. That, the teacher says, is what makes him a sage. An ordinary person would not have been able to bear such criticism face to face.

Confucius, however, could recognize his own problem because of that rebuke, and that is why he later became a sage. The teacher then recalls the disciples asking Confucius about Laozi, and Confucius replying: “Birds can fly, and I know how to shoot them with arrows; fish can swim, and I know how to catch them with hooks; beasts can run, and I know how to take them with nets. But as for the dragon—how it rides wind and cloud and rises to heaven—I do not know. Today, seeing Laozi, I feel as though I have seen a dragon.” That, says the teacher, shows how highly Confucius revered Laozi.

He adds that the *Kongzi Jiayu* also records Confucius asking Laozi about ritual. Another line written on the board says: “Confucius said to Nangong Jingshu, ‘I have heard that Lao Dan is broadly learned in antiquity and the present, penetrates the source of rites and music, and understands the final return of Dao and virtue. He can be my teacher, and now I am going to visit him.’” The *Kongzi Jiayu* preserves many words and deeds attributed to Confucius and may be treated as part of the Confucian transmitted record. In its “Viewing Zhou” chapter, Confucius tells Nangong Jingshu that Laozi knows both ancient and present matters, understands the roots of ritual and music, and also understands where Dao and virtue finally return. Therefore Confucius himself says, “He can be my teacher.” So this is not just later Taoists exalting Laozi by force; Confucius himself says as much.

Therefore, to study the *Dao De Jing*, one must thoroughly investigate both Laozi’s life and the tradition that Confucius asked him about ritual. For now the lecture has reached only the question of Confucius’s visit. As for where Laozi later went, many further problems remain, and those will have to be investigated later as well.

Laozi, the teacher says, was not merely an ordinary sect founder. We commonly call Confucius the Supreme Sage; Laozi, he says, may be called the Ultimate Sage. If you want to understand the *Dao De Jing*, you must first understand Laozi himself. The *Dao De Jing* is only five thousand characters long, but its principles are very deep. If we call ourselves followers of the Taoist tradition and still cannot explain who Laozi was, then when someone asks who our patriarch is and we answer “I do not know,” it is truly disgraceful. Many scriptures in the world’s religions were not personally written by their founders. The Buddhist sutras were compiled later by the disciples of Shakyamuni Buddha. The *Analects* too were not written by Confucius himself, but assembled by his disciples from what he said.

Jesus also did not personally write out a full scripture. If we are speaking of a founder who personally wrote his own classic, Laozi is especially remarkable. That is why the *Dao De Jing* was originally simply called *Laozi*. The book is divided into an upper and lower part: the upper begins with “The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao,” and the lower begins with “Highest virtue is not virtue, therefore it has virtue,” so later the two came to be called together the *Dao De Jing*. The *Shiji*, in the biography of Laozi, says: “His teaching made concealment and namelessness its aim. After living long in Zhou and seeing the decline of Zhou, he departed. When he reached the pass, the commandant Yin Xi said, ‘You are about to withdraw into seclusion; force yourself to write a book for me.’ Thereupon Laozi wrote a book in upper and lower parts, more than five thousand words, explaining the meaning of Dao and De, and then left.”

The meaning, the teacher says, is that Laozi’s learning did not delight in display. He normally kept himself hidden and without fame. After living in Zhou for a long time and seeing its decline, he decided to leave. When he reached the frontier, the pass commandant Yin Xi said to him, “Since you are about to disappear into seclusion, please at least write down a book for me.” So Laozi wrote the upper and lower chapters, more than five thousand words, setting down the meaning of Dao and virtue, and only then departed. Yin Xi, the pass commandant, was a Zhou grandee, learned in his own right and skilled in astronomy. Thus the legend says he observed the stars and the qi, knew that a sage would be passing the frontier, and so kept watch until he finally met Laozi. As for the “flowing sands,” that means the desert. The ancients called it that because sand shifts like water—high one day, low the next—so it is hard to pin it down to one exact spot. We can only say that Laozi later continued westward, beyond the desert sands. Another text, the *Biography of the Pass Commandant*, adds that when the gate officer went in to report the arrival, Yin Xi took his official seal-cord and went out to greet Laozi in person.

Here “crossing the pass” simply means passing the frontier. The “official at the pass” is Yin Xi. According to the story, Yin Xi had already instructed the gate officers to watch carefully: if an old man came through the pass riding in a cart drawn by a green ox, they were to report it to him at once. And one day exactly that happened: an old man arrived seeking passage in a green-ox cart. The gate officer hurried in to report it. The word “to announce” here simply means to report. As soon as Yin Xi heard, he said, “Today I have seen a sage.” He then went out with his seal-cord and official insignia to greet Laozi, receiving him with the etiquette of a disciple.

That is to say, Yin Xi welcomed Laozi in the posture of a disciple, effectively taking him as a teacher. Whether in books or in legend, Laozi is always said to have ridden a green ox. But what kind of ox was it, exactly? The teacher now turns to a line in the *Shiji*, in the annals of Qin: “In the twenty-seventh year of Duke Wen of Qin, they felled a great catalpa tree in the southern mountain.” Before explaining the text, however, he gives several notes. First, the *Cihai* says that “southern mountain” here refers to Zhongnan Mountain, also called South Mountain, whose main peak lies south of Chang’an County in present-day Shaanxi.

Second, the *Cihai* says that in antiquity the catalpa was regarded as the king of trees, and therefore could stand for trees in general. The *Erya* likewise says that the catalpa is chief among the hundred woods. Third, the *Cihai* says that Feng was an ancient place-name where King Wen had his capital; paired with Hao, it formed the early Zhou royal center. Feng lay east of present-day Hu County in Shaanxi, while Hao lay southwest of present-day Chang’an. Fourth, the *Cihai* says that *te* means a male ox.

The *Shiji*, in the fifth section of the Qin annals, says that in the twenty-seventh year of Duke Wen of Qin—739 BCE—he sent men to cut down a great catalpa tree on South Mountain, and in the course of it they obtained a huge male ox. Read literally, the line is not easy to understand, so one must also consult the *Shiji Zhengyi*. But tonight there is not enough time to break it down phrase by phrase. Even so, before formally entering the *Dao De Jing*, the teacher insists that we must first examine Laozi himself with care—from who he was, to how he left China, to where he later went. One question among these is what sort of creature this green ox really was. Such matters must be grounded in historical sources; they cannot just be invented. The green ox was not an ordinary ox.

An ordinary ox has two horns, but this green ox is said to have had only one. So some people guessed: could it have been a rhinoceros? But a rhinoceros has its horn on its nose, while the green ox’s horn is said to have stood on the top of the head. The two are not the same. Some paintings show Laozi riding a water buffalo with two horns; others put the horn on the nose and make it look like a rhinoceros. The teacher says both are wrong. There really was an old tradition of a one-horned “green ox.” He does not have time tonight to explain fully what Laozi’s one-horned green ox looked like or where it carried him after he departed. Those questions still require further research. Laozi was a great man, unlike ordinary people.

Since even Confucius went to Zhou to ask Laozi about ritual, one can see how great Laozi was. And among translations circulated throughout the world, versions of Laozi are extremely numerous—more widespread, the teacher says, than even Buddhist scriptures. So the lecture first pauses there for the night. Then, resuming the topic, he returns to the one-horned green ox and asks again: what kind of beast was it? Now he cites a sentence from the *Shiji Zhengyi*.

It says that in the twenty-seventh year of Duke Wen of Qin there was a great catalpa tree in the mountains, and Duke Wen ordered men to cut it down. But whenever they struck it, great wind and rain arose, and the cut in the trunk closed up again by itself, so they could not fell it. Later a man spent the night in the mountain and heard a ghost and the tree spirit speaking to one another. The ghost said that if Duke Wen ordered the woodcutters to loosen their hair and encircle the tree with red cords before cutting, then the tree spirit would not be able to resist. The tree spirit had no answer. At dawn the traveler came down the mountain and reported what he had heard. Duke Wen followed that method, and this time the tree was indeed cut down. As soon as it fell, a green ox ran out from the hollow trunk and plunged into the waters of Feng.

This, the teacher says, is the “spirit of the great catalpa” story found in the *Shiji Zhengyi*. That work was written by Zhang Shoujie of the Tang. A *zhengyi* is a corrective or authoritative subcommentary on the classics and histories, meant to clarify their proper meaning. Just as Kong Yingda and others compiled the *Correct Meaning of the Five Classics*, Zhang Shoujie composed the *Correct Meaning of the Shiji*. So the lecture cites it here in order to make the *Shiji* clearer. But at this point the teacher stops to correct a mistake of his own. In earlier lectures on the *Dao De Jing*, both at headquarters and elsewhere, he had explained this passage wrongly. If anyone has seen the old recordings, he says, let this now stand as a correction.

In the past, when speaking of the one-horned green ox, he had thought of rhinoceroses in India and Africa, which also have one horn and a grayish hide, and so for a time he explained the green ox as a rhinoceros. He says Patriarch Lü later “rapped him on the head” for not knowing the proper limits. In fact, the green ox is not a rhinoceros. Why not? Because the rhinoceros horn grows on the nose, whereas the horn of the green ox here grows from the forehead or crown, as in cattle or buffalo. So this was his own earlier mistake. He often says he is no god and no immortal, and therefore cannot avoid making errors from time to time. If anyone heard him previously explain the one-horned green ox as a rhinoceros, that explanation should now be corrected.

So what, then, was this one-horned green ox? Patriarch Lü Chunyang says: “What Taoists call the green ox ridden by Laozi is the creature the *Shuowen jiezi* calls *si*.” The teacher then gives a few notes. First, the *Shuowen jiezi* is a thirty-scroll Han dictionary compiled by Xu Shen and divided into 540 graphic sections. It is one of the great works for investigating the principles of the Chinese script and is extremely important for explaining word meanings. Second, the *Cihai* notes that the *si* is like a wild ox and is green in color, following the *Shuowen*. It also cites Guo’s commentary: one horn, blue-green in color, and weighing a thousand *jin*. In other words, the *si* looked like an ox, had a green hide, possessed only one horn, and was large and powerful.

So Patriarch Lü’s explanation tells us that the green ox ridden by Laozi was this very *si* described in the *Shuowen jiezi*. That makes the matter clear: Laozi rode a one-horned green ox, not a rhinoceros. Even so, when we look through the old classical sources, it remains unclear where Laozi and Xu Jia went after they passed westward through the frontier. The accounts are confused, and there is no way to trace his destination completely. Only in the commentary to the “Yangshengzhu” chapter of the *Zhuangzi* is there another note worth consulting. It says: “Laozi, surname Li, personal name Er, style name Boyang, posthumous title Lao Dan, was a great sage. He was born in Ku County of the state of Chen. In the time of King Ping of Zhou, he left Zhou, crossed the flowing sands westward, and went to Jibin.”

The teacher adds one more clarification. Some sources say Laozi was born in Ku County of Chen, while others say Ku County of Chu. These two need not conflict, because Chen was later absorbed by Chu, so the county could be described either way. King Ping of Zhou belongs roughly to the period from 770 to 720 BCE. As for the *Commentary and Subcommentary on the Yangshengzhu of the Zhuangzi*, it was written by Cheng Xuanying of the Tang, a major scholar of Taoist thought and an authoritative figure in Tang Taoism. The place called Jibin probably refers to the region of Kashmir, near Central Asia and the far north of India. So in giving this explanation, Patriarch Lü is also helping us trace one final question: where Laozi ultimately went.

This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.