Each entry gives the term in traditional and simplified form, its pinyin, the senses it carries in the classical corpus, the passages where it does real work, and how published translations have rendered it.
tòng bì
The obstruction in which cold qi prevails. Cold is what makes pain, and the chapter says so twice: once when it names this kind, and again when it explains that obstruction which has gone deep enough to blunt the construction and defence stops hurting, because the pain was the cold and the cold is no longer the whole of it.
chuǎn
In chapter 21 panting is not a disease of the chest but a report about where a person has been. Night walking sends it out from the kidney, a fall and fright from the liver, terror from the lung, wading through water and stumbling from the kidney and the bone. In each case the pant names the viscus that spent itself, and the overflow that follows attacks the viscus that one overcomes. Whether the episode closes or leaves something behind is decided by temperament: in the brave the qi moves through and that is the end, while in the timid it lodges and becomes disease. Elsewhere the word describes a pulse that comes driven and broken, and there too it keeps this sense of effort rather than of illness.
chuǎn míng
What comes of the four rebels: 陰爭於内，陽擾於外，魄汗未藏，四逆而起，起則熏肺，使人喘鳴. Yin is fighting inside, yang is disturbing outside, the sweat of the corporeal soul will not stay in, and the four counterflowing qi rise. When they rise they scorch the lung, and that is what makes a person pant and wheeze. 喘 is the racing breath and 鳴 the sound it makes — the chapter's word is the two of them, and the mechanism it gives is a fire: the lung is scorched from below by qi that has turned round and gone up.
shī qì
Breaking wind while coughing — the sign of small intestine cough, which arises when a heart cough has gone on long enough to pass into the palace paired with the heart.
diān jí
The illness of the crown of the head, and in chapter 47 an illness a child is born with. The base text writes 巔, from 山; the received text writes 癲, from 疒. This site follows the base text and keeps the two apart, the more readily because the chapter itself locates the disease: marrow, whose master is the brain.
yùn shú
菀熟 is the chapter's account of how the illness started, and it is a phrase the commentators divide over. 八風菀熟，五藏消爍，傳邪相受: the eight winds pent up and ripening, the five viscera consumed and melted, the evil transmitted and received. 菀 is 郁, pent and unable to disperse; Yang Shangshen glosses 菀熟 as 蓄積, stored up. 熟, ripened, is read 熱 by Wu Kun, Ma Shi and Zhang Jiebin — pent up until it turns to heat — and the base text's 熟 is kept here with that reading recorded in the collation. The phrase matters because it is the chain Huang Di says Lei Gong's answer left out: he named a viscus without asking where the illness came from.
piān kū
In the seventh chapter, what comes of the third yang and the third yin falling ill together: one side of the body withers, the limbs go flaccid, and the four limbs cannot be raised. The word is the ancestor of the later 半身不遂 — but it says withering, not paralysis, and it is worth keeping which half of the body is named.
cuó fèi
Skin eruptions of the sweat ducts. In this chapter they come from sweat meeting dampness, or from the sweat of labour meeting wind so that the cold presses the eruption back into the skin.
dòng xiè
A watery, unrestrained diarrhoea. Suwen 3 makes it the summer consequence of wind contracted in spring that lingered in the body instead of clearing.
fú zhǒng
Puffiness of the face, the sign that a long cough has gathered in the stomach and turned the qi counterflow. Chapter 38 treats it at the conduits, distinct from the stores' transport points and the palaces' confluence points.
nóng fù
The sinking half of the chapter's last pathological pair: 浮爲血瘕，沈爲膿胕. The graph 胕 is the difficulty. In chapter 33 (面胕痝然) and chapter 61 (胕腫) it is read fū and means swelling; in chapter 42 (有榮氣熱胕) Yang Shangshan glosses it 義當腐, and it is read fù meaning rotten. This chapter's 膿胕 belongs with the second: pus and putrefaction, not pus and swelling. The collation note records the reading, and the entry records why the two senses must not be merged — the same graph carries a swelling in one place and a rot in another, and only the context decides. With 血瘕 it forms a closed pair: what floats is in the blood, what sinks is in the flesh and has already gone over into pus.
yù jié
The knot that grief ties. The sentence it stands in is the fourth item on the list of what a physician must know: 必知終始，有知餘緒，切脉問名，當合男女，離絶菀結，憂恐喜怒，五藏空虛，血氣離守 — know the end and the beginning and the remaining threads, feel the pulse and ask the name, fit it to man and woman, and know parting and cutting off, the pent-up knot, grief and fear, joy and rage, the five viscera empty, the blood and qi scattered and not keeping their place. 離絶 is the severance, 菀結 what the severance leaves: qi that cannot move on. The pair of graphs carries a whole diagnosis of the passions, and the chapter's verdict on the physician who does not know it is blunt — 工不能知，何術之語, if the craftsman cannot know these, what art is there to speak of?