Northgate Success asked the Yellow Emperor, "When my emperor unrolled the All Pool music in the wilds of Dongting Lake, at first I was afraid. I listened some more and was relaxed. And when I finished listening, I was in doubt. Disoriented and speechless, I couldn't get a grip on myself."
The emperor said, "You're awfully close. I played it humanly but plied it naturally. I advanced it with kindness and morality and established it in great purity. The four seasons take their turns and all things follow and live. Now thriving, now declining, arts and warfare stay in step. Now clear, now muddy, yin and yang tuned in harmony, flow-shining their sounds. Sleeping vermin first awake when I startle them with a thunderclap. No tail at the rear, no head in front, now dying, now living, now ruined, now rising—it's endlessly constant but not something you can count on. That's why you were afraid.
"Then I played it with the harmony of night and day and lit it with the light of sun and moon. The notes could be short, they could be long, could be soft, could be hard—the changes find a unity but don't obey a rule. In the valley, they fill the valley; in the void, they fill the void. Plugging the cracks to protect the spirit, using things as the measure, its tones are striking and broad; its renown is high and bright. For this reason, ghosts and spirits stick to their seclusion and the sun, moon, and stars proceed on schedule. I stopped it where there is an end but let it flow where there is no stopping. If you want to plot it out, you cannot know it; to watch it, you cannot see it; to catch up to it, you could not reach it. You stand doubtfully in the way of the four empty directions, leaning on your desk and ranting. Eyes and knowledge are exhausted by what they want to see; strength buckles before what it wants to catch. I just couldn't stop it. Your body filled the void like a snake undulating. You're undulating, which is why you felt relaxed.
Then I played it with unrelaxed tones and tuned it by the command of the self-so, like a blur growing into a thicket, forest music without shape, directing without compelling, silently lost in the twilight. It moves in the directionless and stays in the deep dark. Some call it death, some call it birth. Some call it fruit, some call it flower. The route flows, scattering and moving, not staying in any constant sound. The age, wondering at it, turns to the wise. The wise penetrates the essence and reaches to fate. Nature's trigger isn't pulled but the five organs are all set—this is nature's song. Nothing is said but the heart delights. So there was Mr Furnace praising it, saying, "Listen and you don't hear a sound, look and you don't see a shape. If fills heaven and earth and envelopes the dix directions." You wanted to hear it but couldn't reach; that's why you were in doubt.
The music began with fear—fear, so you were haunted. Then I followed that up with relaxation—relaxation and, so you escaped. I finish it with doubt—doubt and so stupidity—stupidity and so the way, a way that you can carry with you everywhere. [1]