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.
zhòng jié
五藏之氣已絶於内，而用鍼者反實其外，是謂重竭 — when the qi of the five viscera is already cut off within, and the needler instead repletes the outside, this is called double exhaustion. 重竭必死，其死也靜 — death, and the death is quiet, because what remained was already gone and nothing was stirred. The correction is stated in the same breath: 治之者輒反其氣，取腋與膺 — reverse the qi, take the armpit and the chest. The fault is not the needle but the direction: repletion applied to an emptiness that had already reached the surface.
chóng shí
Repletion piled on repletion, the second of the three named mistakes in chapter 26: supplementing at the full moon, when blood and qi are already at their height, makes them brim over and leaves blood lodged in the network vessels. The other two are 藏虚, emptying the depot by draining as the moon waxes, and 亂經, confounding the channels by treating when the rim is empty. All three are errors of timing rather than of technique — the same needle, the same method, the wrong day.
chóng qiáng
What the spleen's deficiency is called. The chapter gives the spleen no normal pulse, only two disordered ones, and it gives each a consequence: excess leaves the four limbs unable to lift, and deficiency leaves the nine orifices blocked. The blocked state has its own name — 重強, doubled rigidity — a stiffness compounded: the limbs will not move and the passages will not open. Commentators have read 重 as chóng (doubled) or as zhòng (heavy), and 強 as qiáng (strong/stiff) or jiàng (unyielding); the two readings differ less than they sound, both describing a rigidity that has piled up on itself.
chóng xū
Vacuity doubled on itself — the pulse vacant in the upper region and the cubit vacant as well. Chapter 28 defines it in one line and then spends three lines telling you how to recognise it: vacuity of qi shows in speech that has lost its constancy, vacuity at the cubit shows in a walk that has gone faint and unsteady, and vacuity of the pulse shows in a pulse that no longer resembles a yin pulse at all. The chapter offers no needling for it. It gives only the test it has been giving all along: if the pulse is still slippery there is life in it, if it has gone rough there is not.
lóng
In chapter 23 it is the bladder's disorder, and it arrives in a pair: when the bladder is impeded, dribbling obstruction; when it is no longer held, urine passed unawares. The two together are worth more than either alone — one is a door that will not open, the other a door that will not shut, and the chapter is describing the same organ failing in both directions. It also shows what kind of book this entry belongs to: 癃 is not yet a disease category here, it is one half of a description of an organ's range.
gǔ zhàng
The abdomen distended like a drum: eat at dawn and you cannot eat at dusk. Chapter 40 answers it with chicken-draff wine and adds the condition that makes the cure fail — eating without measure, so that the qi gathers in the belly again.
suǒ zé
The second of the two transmissions of disease of the third yang: 三陽爲病，發寒熱，下爲癰腫，及爲痿厥腨㾓，其傳爲索澤，其傳爲頽疝. The third yang falls ill with cold and heat, sends sores down to the lower body, brings flaccidity and cramping in the calves — and then transmits. One transmission is 索澤: the moisture is used up and the skin goes lustreless. The other is 頽疝, a swelling that hangs. The chapter gives the pair as the two directions the same heat can go — outward to the surface, downward to the private parts — and 索澤 names the outward one.
kǒu zào
The mouth dry for want of fluid. The book uses it twice, and the two uses divide the word: in lesser yin disease the dryness comes with thirst and a dry tongue, because heat is burning the kidney water; in the dampness patient it comes with a wish for water that cannot be drunk, because the fluid will not rise. Dryness with thirst and dryness without it are not the same complaint.
gān ǒu
Retching with nothing brought up. It appears once, in the wind strike paragraph, paired with a ringing in the nose, and both are read as wind disturbing the stomach and the lung's qi. The book distinguishes it from 嘔逆 not by severity but by what the word points at: 嘔逆 names the qi going the wrong way, 乾嘔 names the empty effort that results.
shí yì
Eating well and yet wasting away — food passes through without building flesh. Named twice in chapter 37, from two different transmissions, making it the clearest case in the chapter of one illness with two sources.
shí yǐn bù jié
Intake that has lost the measure that should govern it. Chapter 29 sets it beside rising and resting out of season, and names the pair as the cause of damage that yin receives — as opposed to the wind and empty evil that yang receives from outside. The consequence the chapter gives is anatomical: what yin receives enters the five depots, and there it produces distension, fullness and blockage above and food-diarrhoea below, which in time becomes intestinal flux. The chapter is not preaching temperance; it is assigning a class of disease to a class of cause, and doing it with the same even hand it uses everywhere else.
xū xié
Evil that enters through an emptiness — the seasonal wind that arrives from its own quarter at its own time and finds the body undefended. Chapter 26 distinguishes it from 正邪, the mild evil that slips in through open pores when the body is exerted, and the distinction is clinical rather than moral: the empty evil is deep and must be avoided altogether, the upright evil is slight and no one notices it. The chapter's severity comes from the sentence about two emptinesses meeting — the body's and heaven's — which is where the evil reaches the bone.