《刘子》Vol. 1

The Liu Zi is a text collected in the “Zhuzi wenji” (Collected Works of Various Masters) section of the Zhonghua Daozang. The book is divided into ten volumes, and the table of contents lists the chapters in order as follows:

Volume One contains Chapter 1, “Clearing the Spirit”; Chapter 2, “Guarding Against Desire”; Chapter 3, “Removing Passions”; Chapter 4, “Concealing One’s Light”; Chapter 5, “The Learning of Lü”; and Chapter 6, “Devoted Learning.”

Volume Two contains Chapter 7, “Discoursing on Music”; Chapter 8, “Practicing Trustworthiness”; Chapter 9, “Reflecting on Accordance”; and Chapter 10, “Vigilance in Solitude.”

Volume Three contains Chapter 11, “Valuing Agriculture”; Chapter 12, “Cherishing the People”; Chapter 13, “Following Transformation”; Chapter 14, “Law and Technique”; Chapter 15, “Reward and Punishment”; and Chapter 16, “Examining Names.”

Volume Four contains Chapter 17, “Despising Reputation”; Chapter 18, “Knowing People”; Chapter 19, “Recommending the Worthy”; and Chapter 20, “Relying on the Manifest.”

Volume Five contains Chapter 21, “Entrusting and Attachment”; Chapter 22, “Hidden in the Heart”; Chapter 23, “Penetration and Blockage”; Chapter 24, “Meeting or Not Meeting”; and Chapter 25, “Fate and Physiognomy.”

Volume Six contains Chapter 26, “Unwarranted Flaws”; Chapter 27, “Matching Talent”; Chapter 28, “Civil and Military”; Chapter 29, “Balancing Responsibilities”; and Chapter 30, “Careful Speech.”

Volume Seven contains Chapter 31, “Valuing Words”; Chapter 32, “The Harm of Slander”; Chapter 33, “Careful Presentation”; Chapter 34, “Sincerity and Fullness”; Chapter 35, “Clarifying Humility”; and Chapter 36, “Great Substance.”

Volume Eight contains Chapter 37, “Discoursing on Giving”; Chapter 38, “Harmonizing Nature”; Chapter 39, “Different Preferences”; Chapter 40, “Military Art”; Chapter 41, “Reviewing the Military”; and Chapter 42, “Clarifying Expediency.”

Volume Nine contains Chapter 43, “Valuing Speed”; Chapter 44, “Observing Capacity”; Chapter 45, “Following the Times”; Chapter 46, “Customs”; Chapter 47, “Advantage and Harm”; Chapter 48, “Misfortune and Blessing”; Chapter 49, “Greed and Attachment”; and Chapter 50, “Resonance by Category.”

Volume Ten contains Chapter 51, “Correct Reward.”

The body is the vessel of life, the heart is the foundation of the body, and spirit is the heart’s treasure. When spirit is settled, the mind is at peace.

When the mind is calm, the body need not be worn down. How can one be still without disturbing one’s nature? By keeping clear of worldly troubles and impurities. When the sky is clear, the sun shines brightly; when the Yellow River runs clear, a sage appears; when the age is peaceful, the world is at peace; when water is clear, fish thrive; when spirit is clear, the heart is free of burdens; when the heart is clear, one’s conduct is upright. Here, “spirit” means a profound and lucid awareness, while “clear” means free of muddiness and confusion. If a person can purify themselves, filth will not cling to them; if they can quiet their heart and spirit, body and mind will not be harmed or burdened. For this reason, Confucius considered Boyi and Shuqi worthy of being called upright and pure.

Only when the mind is at peace can the body be kept whole. When spirit grows restless, the heart is disturbed; once the heart is disturbed, the body too suffers harm. To preserve the body, one must first nurture the spirit. Nurture spirit through calm and equanimity, and the heart will naturally settle. Let the heart abide in stillness, emptiness, and clarity, and it will not be enticed by external things. When spirit is tranquil and the heart is clear, the body is free of burdens. The Zhuangzi says, “An empty room gives rise to brightness; good fortune arrives.” This means that when the heart is empty, clear, and pure, auspiciousness will come.

“An empty room gives rise to brightness” means that when the heart is empty and clear, undimmed by distracting thoughts, a pure and luminous state of mind appears naturally. Sima Biao explains that “que” means emptiness or stillness.

People do not use a dull piece of metal to look at themselves, but use a bright mirror, because its surface is clean and reflects clearly. People do not use flowing water to look at their faces…

People do not use a dark piece of metal to look at themselves; they use a mirror, because its bright surface shows their features clearly. They do not use flowing water to look at themselves; they use still water, because it is clear. A mirror and still water can reflect the shapes of things because they are bright and clear. From this we can see that when the mind and spirit are clear, defilements disperse; when the body is still, the mind and spirit become lucid. Once defilements disperse, desires within are brought completely to rest; once the mind and spirit are lucid, the burdens of the outside world cannot intrude. Today, when clear, bright singing sounds, people feel joy.

Han E, a woman of ancient times renowned for her singing, wanted to travel to the state of Qi. Singing as she went, she reached Yong Gate just as heavy snow fell and her provisions ran out. She decided to sing for food. The people of Yong Gate did not recognize her and struck her with a staff. Han E began to weep bitterly. Hearing her cries, the people of Yong Gate also grew sorrowful and wept; for three days, they did not eat. A clever person said to her, “Since you are such a fine singer, why not stop weeping and sing instead?” Han E then began to sing. Her voice was clear and flowing, as if it could shake the dust from the roof beams. After hearing her, the people of Yong Gate forgot to eat for three days.

When a sorrowful sound is heard, people’s hearts grow sorrowful with it. The mind and spirit dwell within the body, and when touched by things outside, they are stirred and changed. From this we can see that changes in emotion come from the outside. Even a single feeling of sorrow or joy can be enough to block a person’s nature; how, then, could the countless things in the world fail to move the mind and spirit? So when many people draw their bows and shoot at one swan, how could a magpie avoid being hit?

The magpie being struck is used here as a metaphor: a person’s thoughts are tangled in countless directions, emotions are in turmoil, and the mind and spirit are unsettled, like the magpie that cannot easily escape the arrows.

The dazzling variety of all things can easily confuse a person throughout life. How can anyone live in the world without suffering harm? The seven orifices—two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, and the mouth—are gateways through which the spirit enters and leaves. The will and the breath are like messengers of the five organs: the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys. The ears and eyes are tempted by sounds and colors; the nose and mouth crave fragrances and delicacies; the body seeks ease and comfort. Once these sensations stir desire, the spirit rushes outward and can no longer remain settled. The will and the breath are pulled by all manner of choices and rejections, and the five organs become unsettled as well. When external cravings and desires persistently entangle a person, the heart is obstructed. If one indulges in excessive desires and remains caught up in disputes over right and wrong, few are likely to avoid damaging their Virtue and harming their life.

Therefore, the sages keep their eyes clear, free from the allure of external things; they quiet their ears and do not chase after sounds; they keep their mouths closed and speak little, so their thoughts are not stirred into turmoil. They value themselves and do not think less of themselves because of humble circumstances, so even great power and prestige cannot shake them.

Long ago, Yao wished to yield the imperial throne to Xu You. Xu You refused to accept it, and went to the river to wash his ears, showing that he did not wish to hear talk of making him an official.

They take joy in the Dao and so forget poverty; therefore, abundant benefits cannot sway them. They settle themselves and roam freely in accordance with their nature, letting their breath flow fully and keeping their hearts pure. Thus, even without deliberately caring for the body, they can naturally preserve their nature and life; when the heart is not wearied, the Dao comes of its own accord.

The Second Essay: Guarding Against Desire

People receive the Qi of Heaven and Earth and are born with feelings and an inborn nature. When the nature is stirred by external things, feelings arise; when those feelings find comfort and satisfaction, desires take shape.

Desire is the root of greed for precious things and the beginning of extravagance and indulgence. Xia Jie and Shang Zhou lost their kingdoms because of desire; Qing Feng and Zhi Bo ruined their families for the same reason. They failed to prevent small troubles from growing and to consider the long term, allowing minor problems to accumulate into great disasters. Jiang Taigong’s Six Secret Teachings says: “If two small leaves are not plucked in time, in the end an entire large branch must be cut off. If a faint spark is not extinguished in time, what can be done once it blazes fiercely?” This shows that if small problems are not removed early, they may give rise to great calamity.

Human emotions arise from our nature, yet they can go against it; desires arise from emotions, yet they can in turn harm them. Emotions can damage our nature, and our nature can also be hindered by emotions, just as smoke and fire, or ice and water, are related. Smoke arises from fire, yet it can obscure the flames; ice forms from water, yet it can obstruct its flow. Thus, when there is little smoke, the fire burns brightly; when ice floats on the surface, the water can still flow freely. When our nature is upright and pure, emotions and desires subside; when passion and desire blaze, our nature is extinguished.

A pearl is smooth and lustrous, so dust does not readily cling to it; when our nature is clear, emotions and desires can scarcely take hold. A grove is still by nature, but it sways when moved by the wind. Water is clear by nature, but becomes muddy when stirred up by earth. Human nature is upright by nature, but turns crooked when clouded by desire.

Human desire is like a wormhole in a tree: when the tree is eaten away, it is the tree itself that is harmed. In the same way, a person who harbors desire ultimately harms himself. When the damage is severe, the tree breaks; when desire blazes, a person moves toward ruin.

To rein in emotions and desires, one should first discipline the five gateways of the senses. These five gateways are the paths through which emotions and desires enter, and the places where cravings gather. The eyes covet beautiful colors; this is like an axe that fells our nature. The ears become absorbed in wanton music; this is like a drumbeat that assails the spirit. The mouth craves delicacies; rich meats and fine wine are like medicines that corrode the stomach and intestines. The nose delights in strong fragrances; this is like smoke scorching the throat. The body covets the comfort of riding in carriages and on horseback; this is like a device that brings calamity.

Shu Shou saw that people in poverty often longed for wealth and status, and that even the wealthy might still find themselves in danger. So he resigned from office, hung his official cap outside the eastern gate of the capital, and retired to his home town. A thousand officials and nobles came to see him off. Yu Xin wrote, “The high ministers saw off the two Shu brothers.” The two Shu were Shu Shou and his elder brother, Shu Guang. An old saying goes: “The two Shu recognized the moment, laid down their seals of office, and departed. Who forced them to do so?” The Book says: “When in a high position and enjoying favor, think of danger; in all things, remain mindful and reverent.”

The five gateways of the senses described above are the places where one must exercise restraint in order to nurture life.

The eyes and ears chase after sights and sounds; the nose and mouth crave fragrances and flavors; the body seeks comfort. These feelings are common to everyone. They can be used to nurture life, but they can also harm it. Depending on how people deal with these desires, they may become wise and discerning, or ordinary and foolish.

This is like a fool raising fish and birds. Seeing that the weather is cold, he puts the fish in hot soup and places the birds beside a raging fire. Water and trees are the natural environments in which fish and birds live, but when used in the wrong way, they make them wither and die. Sights and sounds, fragrances and flavors, can bring people pleasure, but indulging in them excessively also harms life.

Those who understand the Way know how to examine their feelings, cast off what burdens them, and restrain their desires in order to preserve their nature. They eat only to satisfy hunger and restore their strength, and wear clothes only to cover themselves and keep warm. They do not let luxurious, dazzling things disturb their nature, or fleeting pleasures unsettle their spirit. They are content with what is enough and remain in a position where they will not be harmed. This is the principle of preserving one’s inborn nature.

A bee sting on the finger can trouble a person for half the day; a mosquito bite can keep someone awake all night. The harm caused by bees and mosquitoes is minor: it is a bodily discomfort on the surface. People avoid bees and insects in the mountains and drive mosquitoes out of their homes. Why? Because they harm the body.

When greed and desire invade the heart, they turn a person’s nature upside down and throw it into confusion. The harm caused by cravings is great: it is an illness deep within the heart, far more serious than a small injury to a finger or the skin. People know to avoid an outer injury as slight as an autumn hair, yet take no precautions against inner harm as weighty as Mount Tai. To cast aside a minor danger while bearing a grave injury—is this not a reversal of what matters most?

When oxen and horses wander far away and do not return, people know to go after them and bring them back. Yet when their desires and passions run wild, people do not know how to rein them in. Is this not foolish? To restrain desire, one must act as soon as it begins to stir, while it is still faint. The first stirrings of desire are like a tree just putting out shoots or a fire showing only a tiny spark: a pinch of the hand can break the shoot, and a drop of dew can put out the spark. But once desire blazes, its branches spread and reach into the clouds, and the fire grows fierce and consuming.

“Biao” describes flames leaping upward, while “shan” describes a fire burning fiercely. In the state of Chu stood Zhanghua Terrace, a very tall structure. The King of Chu admired martial valor, so he set fire to the terrace and ordered the soldiers to put it out. He decreed that anyone who distinguished himself in fighting the fire would receive the same reward and honors as someone who had taken an enemy’s head. The soldiers therefore smeared their bodies with mud and rushed to save the terrace from the flames. Thus the fire blazed fiercely enough to destroy Zhanghua Terrace.

Even if one exhausted one’s strength chopping with an axe, then drained a pond to pour water on the fire, one still could not put out such flames, for they were too intense. When desire has only just arisen, one can still restrain the eyes and ears and control the mind. But once desire has grown fierce, even curbing one’s feelings and suppressing one’s wants cannot bring it under control, because one’s nature has already been corrupted. If one can close off the senses before desire has yet become apparent…

Here, “dui” refers to the eyes. The Laozi says, “Block the openings and close the gates,” meaning that one should shut off the senses and avoid looking at things that arouse desire.

If one can curb desire while it is still faint, then even if one later wishes to regret it, how could there be time?

Eliminating Emotions, Part Three

Emotions govern judgments of right and wrong and are the source of gain and loss. Without emotions, people would not become confused when they encounter things. With emotions, responding to events can easily become obstructed; therefore, one must rid oneself of the entanglements of emotion.

Where there is “right,” there is also “wrong”; what brings benefit may also cause harm. When judgments of right and wrong, benefit and harm, are held in the heart, people become suspicious of one another. Thus, if one encounters things without attachment or bias, one can move through any situation with ease. But if one engages with others from an emotional bias, even the slightest contact or response can become an obstacle. It follows that wherever emotions are involved, things are often liable to cause confusion.

Thus, when a matchmaker praises someone, the person being praised does not take it as a kindness. A person who is strong and eats a great deal does not feel indebted, even if someone gives him enough to eat. And when an infant hurts someone, the injured person does not resent the infant for it. A dwarf…

Someone who is praised will not become self-satisfied if they do not regard the praise as a mark of their own virtue. A strong, hearty eater who has eaten their fill will not consider that fullness a favor bestowed by someone else. When an infant injures another person, the injured person does not resent it; when a dwarf mocks someone, the person mocked does not feel humiliated. Why is this so? Because they do not dwell on gain and loss. They are not especially attached to praise or a full stomach, and even when they receive a favor, they do not think it reflects their own virtue. They are not troubled by injury or insult, and even when they are slandered, they feel no regret.

Fish do not fear fishing nets, but they do fear birds such as swans, partridges, geese, and crows. These birds are also called “huwu,” meaning marsh crows. Fu Wei does not resent famous swords such as Suizou and Moye—Moye is the name of a sword, and Yuchang, Shulou, Zijian, Furong, Liucai, Lianhua, Mingyue, and Qixing are also sword names—but he resents the people who wield them. A fishing net has no intention, while a bird has feelings and desires; a sword itself has no feelings, while the person wielding it has intentions.

Entrusting the division of property to an honest person is less reliable than deciding by drawing lots or picking marked slips, because money can stir that person’s thoughts. Having an upright person guard valuables is likewise less reliable than sealing the storeroom and keeping it secure. Why? Someone with personal motives trying to be fair is less impartial than a method free of self-interest; someone with desires trying to be incorruptible is less dependable than having no greed at all.

People today have eyes as keen as Li Zhu, a man from the time of the Yellow Emperor renowned for his exceptional sight. It is said that he could see, from a hundred paces away, things as fine as the tip of a hare’s hair. In their minds, they weigh what is light against what is heavy as if with a balance.

When you judge another person’s appearance as beautiful or ugly, even if you speak the truth, they will surely dislike and resent you. Later, when they look in a mirror and see their reflection, their ugliness laid bare, they may feel distressed for a moment, but they will not resent the mirror. The person who judged them earlier and the mirror alike revealed their true appearance. Yet they resent the former and not the mirror because the mirror has no feelings, while a person has a mind of their own.

Three people are in a room. Two of them get into an argument, and people often trust the one who took no part in it, asking them to judge who is right and wrong, and what each side has gained or lost. But the person who does not argue is not necessarily impartial, just as the two who argue are not necessarily biased. Why do people place their trust in the one who stays out of the dispute? Because those who argue are prejudiced against each other, and both are caught up in the desire to win.

A roof tile is lifted by the wind and happens to strike someone. Even if the person feels displeased, they will not become angry, because the tile did not strike them on purpose. For this reason, the sage casts aside clever schemes to preserve what is genuine, and sets private feelings aside, meeting things with a calm mind. He does not make himself the master of his reputation.

“Corpse” means “master.” The sage may seem dull, yet he is not trapped by reputation, nor does he turn his mind into a storehouse of schemes. Thus his state of mind has no boundaries.

When the mind is not made into a storehouse of schemes, one is free and unimpeded, unconstrained. Worldly affairs can no longer entangle or burden one.

Chapter Four: Concealing One’s Radiance

Everything that makes its home in the world knows how to hide its form and cover its tracks, withdrawing from the dust of the world to conceal its essence, preserve its nature, and settle its life.

“To conceal” means to hide. The military text written by Taigong is called the Six Secret Teachings, with sections titled Dragon Teaching, Tiger Teaching, Leopard Teaching, Human Teaching, and others. Zhang Tou says that the character for “conceal” should be pronounced “tu jia qie,” not with the sound “zi jie.”

Ordinary people, too, should hide their essence and restrain their outward traces, in order to preserve themselves and gain good fortune.

Those who show off what is unusual and display their abilities invariably damage their nature and harm their lives.

All things in the world delight in splendor. They like to show off what is beautiful and unusual and display their abilities; those who flaunt themselves in this way invariably harm their nature.

Thus the kingfisher brings destruction upon itself because of its beautiful feathers.

The peacock’s feathers, streaked with blue and yellow and vivid green, can be made into ornaments, so people often capture it. The turtle’s spiritual nature, instead, brings harm upon it: after the divine turtle appeared bearing the Yellow River Map, people bored and scorched its shell to divine good and ill fortune. Cinnabar is ground down for its color, while stones are split open because they contain precious jade.

These four things are born in places unlike the human world and have no real connection with people. They dwell in mountains and forests, their hearts set on realms beyond the world, and seek nothing from humankind. Yet they still bring calamity upon themselves, because they fail to conceal their traces.

If the peacock folded its wings and hid in the forest of Mingqiu, it could forever escape the misfortune of having its feathers plucked. Mingqiu lies in the south, ninety thousand li from the Central Plains. It is home to volcanoes and a place where phoenixes appear.

If the turtle dragged its tail through the mud of Yanggu, it would not suffer the pain of being bored and scorched. Yanggu is where the sun rises. The Book of Documents says, “The sun rises from Yanggu, and the world is filled with light.” Here, it refers to a place where light shines everywhere.

If cinnabar concealed its brilliance and lay hidden deep within Chunshan, it too would escape being mined and ground. Chunshan is another name for Jingshan, a place rich in jade and cinnabar.

In this way, it can forever avoid the suffering of being cut down. A stone rising beside a fork in the road at Xuánpǔ, the fabled realm of immortals, has no fear of being split open and carved. Thus, timber trees in deep mountains and secluded valleys grow among layers of rock, their crowns reaching straight into the blue sky and their roots plunging deep into the Yellow Springs. Their branches and leaves spread thickly, and their forms twist into strange shapes. Qilin play beneath them, while immortal cranes and luan birds circle above their crowns. Floating clouds linger beside them, and gentle breezes pass through their branches. They face not the slightest trouble throughout the year and are never felled by an axe. This is not because they are useful to people, but because they can conceal their form and substance, thereby preserving their natural state.

An elm by the roadside will have its branches cut by woodcutters and its trunk felled by carpenters. Even a stump only a foot high may be snapped off by passersby. It brings trouble despite being of no particular use because it has not concealed its appearance.

King Wen of Zhou once planned to kill a rooster and offer it in sacrifice at the ancestral temple. Knowing that its plumage met the requirements for the offering, the rooster pecked off its own tail. Once its tail was gone, it no longer qualified as a sacrificial offering, and the spirits no longer needed it. Thus it escaped death.

A mountain snub-nosed monkey, a legendary spirit creature skilled at imitating people, will ultimately invite disaster if it displays its abilities. When the King of Chu went hunting, a mountain monkey showed off its skill in a tree. The king asked his attendants, “Who is the finest archer?” They replied, “Only Yang Youji is a master archer.” The king then ordered Yang Youji to shoot it. Yang Youji came to the foot of the tree, adjusted his bowstring, and nocked an arrow. The monkey immediately clung to the tree and wept, for it knew that Yang Youji’s archery was superb and that there was nowhere to hide; it was certain to be shot dead.

From this we can see that displaying one’s abilities and drawing attention to oneself often invites trouble. Only by concealing one’s traces may one preserve oneself.

From this we can understand that the principles governing when to advance or withdraw, and where to make one’s stand, are the same. Thus, people of virtue in ancient times kept their movements in check and concealed their abilities, so that nothing showed on the outside. They quieted their minds and restrained their emotions, bringing stability within. When the mind is settled, the spirit does not become confused; when one’s movements are concealed, the body is not troubled by outside disturbances. By conducting oneself in this way, can one not preserve oneself?

Chapter Five: Esteeming Learning

The deepest principles cannot be expressed directly in words. Yet without words, those principles cannot be explained. Great images have no fixed form, but without establishing images, their mysteries are difficult to explore. The subtleties of the Dao and its images must be conveyed through words; the subtleties conveyed by words, in turn, must be passed down through learning. No one can understand the Great Dao without learning, nor can anyone enrich themselves without its aid.

Silkworms spin silk, which is woven into cloth and then dyed into splendid brocade for nobles and rulers to wear. People learn proper conduct and cultivate refinement, and the world comes to respect them. If a silkworm does not spin, its raw silk remains unused in the basket; if a person does not learn, their abilities remain buried within. A pearl does not appear until the shell is opened; the music of the phoenix does not sound until bamboo from Mount Kunlun is cut and made into pitch pipes.

The Yellow Emperor once sent Ling Lun to Xiegu, west of Mount Kunlun, to find bamboo for making pitch pipes. The bamboo there was yellow as gold, and when played, its sound closely resembled the cry of a phoenix. Thus, unless pitch pipes are made, the music of the phoenix cannot be heard.

Unless a person’s temperament is refined, their spiritual and intellectual abilities cannot emerge. Consider metal and wood: water is contained within metal, and fire within wood. Smelting metal can bring out the water, while drilling wood can kindle fire. If people apply themselves to learning and refine their nature as one drills wood and smelts metal, their abilities will emerge.

The color produced from the indigo plant is bluer than the plant itself; this is the result of dyeing. Ice formed from water is colder than water; this is the effect of cold. A mirror made from metal is brighter than the metal itself; this is the result of polishing. People in the lands of the Rong and Yi cry alike when they are born, but speak differently as they grow up. This is because they receive different instruction.

The Rong live in the west and the Yi in the east, and their languages differ. When children are born, their cries are no different; as they grow, their speech becomes distinct. This is the result of what they are taught.

The Rong people in the west and the Yi people in the east speak different languages. Yet when they are born, their cries are no different. It is only as they grow up that their speech diverges. These differences arise from the different instruction and training they receive.

Jade hidden in a mountain makes its plants and trees look lush; pearls within a river keep its banks from drying out. When the mouth takes in wholesome flavors, every part of the body is nourished. When the mind receives instruction from the classics, a person’s five innate qualities can become fully developed. Thus, without climbing a high mountain, one cannot know how high the sky is; without looking down into a deep valley, one cannot know how deep the earth is; without studying the Six Arts, the six basic skills of antiquity, one cannot know the source of wisdom. What looks brilliant from afar often owes its appearance to external adornment; what grows brighter the closer one looks is the light that learning brings.

Arrow bamboo from Hao is strong and resilient. Even when the stalk is straight and firm, it still needs feathers before it can make a good arrow. The bamboo from Kuaiji in Wu, in the eastern Wu region, is straight and tough, and suitable for arrow shafts, yet it too needs feathers and an arrowhead.

Swords from Yue are sharp by nature, but they must still be quenched and sharpened to become good swords. A person may be naturally quick-witted, but without sustained learning, cannot achieve anything. Learning must proceed from the shallow to the deep, gradually uncovering what lies between, until what is clear comes into view. One cannot decide one already understands on the basis of hearsay, nor assume one has learned well by piling up knowledge indiscriminately.

Someone who wants to go home thinks only of reaching home, but cannot get there in a single step. Someone who loves learning keeps the classics in mind, but cannot master them by reading them just once. A mountain can be built up to a thousand zhang only by starting with a basket of earth; a deep well can be dug to ten thousand ren only by beginning with a hole three cun deep. At first, a numinous pearl is no bigger than a bean. Once it grows to a diameter of one cun, its light can fill a room. If a person keeps reading and learning, then, when their studies bear fruit, their mind will shine as brightly as that pearl.

The growth of things is often hard to see at first; only over year after year do they gradually become stronger and greater. The tongue of a nao, a striking piece shaped like a finger, is made of bronze, while its tongue-shaped striker is made of wood.

People often fail to notice small injuries. Accumulated over time, however, they can lead to disaster. Water dripping from a cliff can eventually pierce stone; the cords that repeatedly pull a cart’s wheel can wear through its axle. Water is no diamond-tipped tool, and a cord is no saw for cutting wood, yet they can pierce stone and break an axle through the effects of long accumulation.

Ears may be perfectly formed, yet if they cannot hear, a person is deaf; eyes may be intact, yet if they cannot see, a person is blind. Even someone of good natural character is not learning the Dao (the principles one ought to study) if they do not know how to examine themselves. When the ears first begin to grow blocked and the eyes first begin to dim, people often do not yet think it necessary to spend a great deal of money or travel far to seek treatment. Someone who does not study is like a person deaf and blind in the mind: they do not know to travel far in search of a wise teacher who can correct the failings that cloud the mind and damage one’s nature.

Thus, even as Confucius—styled Zhongni and called Xuanni in this text—lay dying, he still kept a scroll in his hands; and Dong Zhongshu continued reciting right up to the end of his life.

Dong Zhongshu was from Guangchuan. He lowered the curtains and devoted himself to reading, going seven years without looking at the garden and seeing his brothers only rarely. After riding a horse for three years, he could no longer tell whether it was male or female.

You Ruo, a disciple of Confucius, hated sleeping so much that he cut his own palm.

While reading, You Ruo feared he would fall asleep, so he cut his palm to keep himself alert.

Su Qin, called Su Sheng in this text, worried that he would give in to sleep, so he drove an awl into his thigh. If even the sages were so diligent in their studies and never grew weary, how could ordinary people take that as a reason to rest?

Chapter Six: Devoting Oneself to Study

Learning begins in the heart-mind, which governs the body.

The heart-mind contains the Five Constant Virtues—benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness, as Confucianism calls them—yet people have different interests. Some study the classics and histories; others delight in music and books. At times they envy worldly pleasures, and at other times they long for quiet and leisure. All these inclinations arise from the heart-mind.

The ears and eyes receive information from the outside world. If the heart-mind is not devoted to learning, a person will not take in what they hear, even when listening to a discussion, and will not understand what they see, even when looking at written texts. To pursue learning, one must first set the heart-mind straight; only then can one grasp the principles.

Two leaves placed over the eyes can make a person see nothing at all. The eyes govern sight, and the ears govern hearing. When something blocks the view, naturally one cannot see.

The eyes govern seeing, and the ears govern hearing. If two leaves cover the eyes, nothing can be seen; if two pearls are stuffed into the ears, nothing can be heard. Covering the eyes with leaves and stopping the ears with pearls both block the senses from outside, leaving the eyes unable to see and the ears unable to hear.

The mind is inside the body, while external things are outside it. When the eyes cannot see colors and the ears cannot hear sounds, sight and hearing are lost, and the mind is cut off within. Thus, seeing and hearing are said to have been blocked.

This is only to be expected. Yet Liju, famed in legend for his extraordinary eyesight in the time of the Yellow Emperor, could make out the finest tip of a rabbit’s hair but could not hear a sound as loud as thunder. Jizi, a prince of the state of Wu skilled at recognizing pitches and listening to music, listened intently to the sound called Qingjiao but could not see the forms of Mount Song and Mount Dai.

Qingjiao is a particular musical pitch. According to legend, when Jizi traveled as an envoy to other states, he would listen to their music and identify this pitch to judge the strength of their state. Fully absorbed in hearing, he had no attention left for the scenery.

What the eyes see cannot be taken over by the ears, and the ears cannot see things. When one concentrates on looking, attention leaves the ears, and hearing can no longer take notice. When one concentrates on listening, attention leaves the eyes, and sight can no longer attend. This is because the mind and spirit cannot focus on two places at once.

When Liju’s mind and spirit were absorbed in observing minute things, he had no leisure to hear other sounds. When Jizi concentrated on recognizing Qingjiao, he likewise had no attention left to look at Mount Song and Mount Dai. When the mind and spirit dwell on what the eyes see, they must overlook what the ears hear; the same is true when they are absorbed in the sound of Qingjiao.

Liezi, the legendary man of exceptional eyesight, could not attend to sounds when he concentrated on looking, and could not attend to what he saw when he concentrated on listening. To be absorbed in the mind and spirit is to be led along by sight and sound.

Thus, when the mind is fixed on the eyes, the ears are forgotten: sounds may be heard, but not clearly. When it is fixed on the ears, the eyes are neglected, and what is before them goes unseen. Suppose someone is asked to draw a square with the left hand and a circle with the right, completing both at once. Even if he understands how to use a compass and a square, his hands cannot do both tasks well at the same time. Commentators explain that zhuo is a square-bladed knife like a carpenter’s square, while jue is a curved, round-bladed knife like a compass: the compass draws circles, and the square draws squares. Another explanation takes “jurao” to mean a running technique from the time of the Yellow Emperor, later used colloquially to mean moving swiftly.

The reason it cannot be done is that the mind cannot focus on two things at once, and so the hands cannot coordinate two tasks at the same time.

Yi Qiu, the finest chess player in the land, was once playing a game and considering his moves when someone passed by playing a sheng. His attention shifted for a moment to the music, and he lost the game. It was not that the principles of chess had suddenly become profound and difficult to grasp; a lapse in his attention had allowed the sheng music to distract him.

Li Shou, the finest calculator in the world, once saw a wild goose fly past. He drew his bow and took aim, ready to shoot. If someone had asked him then what three times five was, he would have been unable to answer. It was not that three times five was difficult to calculate; his mind had momentarily become confused, distracted by the goose.

When Yi Qiu played chess and Li Shou calculated, each could discern the subtlest changes and work out every number without error. But once their attention turned to the sheng music or the wild goose, they made mistakes at chess and in calculation. Their situations were alike: their minds were not fully focused, and their attention had shifted to something else.

A blind person lacks sight, yet can hear keenly by concentrating on hearing. A turtle has no ears, yet can see clearly by concentrating on sight. Even creatures with limited senses, such as the blind and the turtle, can hear acutely and see clearly through concentration.

Cicadas are difficult to catch, yet a cicada catcher can wield his sticky pole with the speed of a knife. When Confucius visited Chu, he saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with great skill and praised him: “How skillful! How skillful!”

In the Book of Songs, “Zhou Nan: Juan’er” says that Juan’er plants are easy to gather, yet one cannot fill a basket with them. This depends on whether the gatherer is attentive or distracted. The consort sighed, “If I could find a worthy man, I could govern the state together with him.” She did not expect that what happened during the sacrifice would reveal the difference between an attentive and an inattentive gatherer.

Thus, those who seek learning must study diligently and with concentration if they are to grasp it deeply. If their minds are elsewhere and they force themselves to memorize, the material may enter their ears, but it will not truly settle in their hearts. This is like a deaf person trying to learn to sing by imitating others: they cannot take pleasure in it themselves. Though the song comes from their mouth, it is scattered and out of tune.

On Distinguishing Music, Chapter Seven

Music is the sound of Heaven and Earth, and the standard by which the myriad things are brought into harmony. It follows the rhythms of the five notes—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—with fast and slow passages complementing one another. Only when they are properly balanced can they form harmonious sound.

Music is also an expression of human feelings that cannot be avoided. When people are happy, they laugh, and laughter brings them joy. In their joy, they want to sing, strike instruments with their hands, and dance in rhythm with their feet. In singing, they chant the lyrics with their voices; in dancing, their bodies move with the melody. Voices and instruments accompany one another, but the lines of the lyrics are not all the same length. The music must therefore change with the lyrics, the performance must shift in turn, and then the singing continues. Lyrics of this kind are called “song ya.”

Singing is expressed through sound, and dancing through posture. One listens to a song’s sound and watches a dance’s movements. The human body expresses itself through movement and stillness, and in the end all return to the Dao (the Way). Changes in sound and movement reflect the many changes in human nature and conduct. People cannot be without music; where there is music, the body will express itself, and where the body expresses itself, the Dao is involved. The Dao, in turn, may give rise to disorder. The former kings abhorred such disorder.

When Shi Kuang, a musician of the Spring and Autumn period, heard a tune played on the south wind, he immediately judged that it could not be performed to its conclusion. When Ji Zha, a prince of the state of Wu during the same period, listened to music, he heard that the state of Chen would fall before the other feudal states. This shows that by carefully attending to notes such as gong and shang and to musical modes, one can discern prosperity and decline through music.

In performance, once the sequence of the Five Notes has been completed, one should bring the music to a close rather than letting the fingers continue to play. If playing carries on after the piece has ended, disordered and unrestrained sounds arise, disturbing the proper music. The former kings abhorred such disorder, so they established ritual music—music in keeping with ritual norms and guided by restraint—to guide people’s hearts. If the fingers keep playing after the piece is finished, the result is licentious music. Proper music is called elegant music; music played with chaotic technique and producing disordered sounds is called licentious music. Licentious music is the sound of a state in decline and a world in chaos.

The former kings therefore established elegant music to guide people and place limits on musical sound. It should bring pleasure without becoming unrestrained; its tones should harmonize and its sequence should be orderly, without deceit.

“Deceit” means fraud. The former kings established music in order to set limits and rhythms for it. Music is governed by the Five Notes, and its sounds vary in pace. From beginning to end, slow and fast passages must complement one another to form music that is balanced and harmonious. Once a piece is complete, one should stop and withdraw. When the Five Notes have been played and the music has returned to harmony, it should not be repeated over and over; otherwise, it becomes licentious music. Thus, when the sequence of the Five Notes has ended, continuing to play is no longer proper music. If the fingers keep adding notes, disordered sounds will all arise together. Such cacophonous music is the sound of Zheng and Wei, local music traditionally regarded in ritual discourse as unrestrained, and is considered the sound of a state in decline and a world in chaos. Music should therefore be harmonious and orderly, without deceit.

“Even when the music is elaborate, keep it restrained, simple, and balanced” means that however many variations a piece contains, one should know how to exercise restraint, keep the sound spare, and maintain proportion and harmony.

Ancient Confucian thinkers’ views on music can be summarized as follows: music may be elaborate, simple, or balanced and peaceful; it may also be undisciplined and excessive, or refined and solemn. Those who create music must distinguish these qualities clearly, making the tones harmonious rather than strange, and arranging the sounds in an orderly, coherent flow. If the tones are too elaborate, they should be suitably simplified so that the music is calm and even. Music can move the heart, help people discern good from evil, noble from lowly, and high from low in rank, and transform people’s feelings and customs. Every dance follows certain rules, so dance itself, too, has its own order.

Music can turn people’s hearts toward goodness and restrain indulgent and deviant impulses. This was the purpose for which the sage kings of antiquity established ritual and music. Each of the Five Emperors lived in a different age, so they did not all use the same music and dances.

The ancient sage kings performed the music and dance of “Cloud Gate” to worship Heaven, “Reservoir of All” to worship Earth, “Xiao and Shao” to worship the spirits of the four directions, “Great Xia” to worship mountains and rivers, “Great Huo” to worship their deceased maternal ancestors, and “Great Wu” to worship their male ancestors. Huangdi, Zhuanxu, Di Ku, Yao, and Shun are collectively known as the Five Emperors.

The Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties belonged to different ages and did not simply copy the ritual systems of earlier times. The Three Kings referred to in later sources are the rulers of Xia, Shang, and Zhou. Each established ritual and music according to its achievements and Virtue, adapting them to the changes of the age.

Huangdi’s music was called “Cloud Gate,” meaning that his sage Virtue poured forth like clouds through a gateway. Zhuanxu’s music was called “Five Stems,” because his beneficence reached all things, as though everything had roots and stems. Di Ku’s music was called “Six Blossoms,” because his beneficence reached all things and brought forth flourishing brilliance. Yao’s music was called “Reservoir of All”: “all” means everyone and everything, while “reservoir” means to spread abroad; the name signifies that his sage Virtue extended throughout the realm. Shun’s music was called “Xiao and Shao”: “xiao” carries a sense of reverence and describes the solemn, respectful character of Shun’s conduct; “shao” means succession, referring to Shun’s inheriting Yao’s great achievements and Virtue. The Book of Documents says, “When the Xiao and Shao is performed in nine movements, the phoenix comes in stately procession.” These are the names of the music of the Five Emperors.

Yu’s music was called “Great Xia.”

“Xia” means “great.” It refers to how Yu of Xia could bring forth the virtues of Yao and Shun, spreading their benevolence far and wide, like the heavens. He toiled for the people and governed for their benefit, like a great house sheltering its inhabitants; this is why it was called “Xia.”

The music and dance of Tang of Shang was called “Great Protection.” The word huo means to rescue and protect. Tang’s virtue was vast: he aided the people, eradicated evil and tyranny, and extended protection and nurture widely, spreading his benevolence throughout the world. This is why it was called “Great Protection.”

The music and dance of King Wu of Zhou was called “Great Martial.” Because he used military force to pacify the world, the music and dance was named “Great Martial.” Looking back from the Xia, Shang, and Zhou to the eight dynasties before them, each followed a different mandate of Heaven and made different changes. Each created music and dance in response to the circumstances in which its dynasty arose; the ritual and musical systems of the different states were not simply copied from one another. For this reason, the music and dance of the eight dynasties had different names.

The former kings distinguished the five tones—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—and combined them with the eight kinds of sound, produced by instruments made from different materials. Here, “spreading” means laying out the sounds. Music and dance centered on dance, accompanied by music. In the rites of Lu, songs were sung in the hall and dances performed in the courtyard: poetry was sung first, followed by instrumental music and dance. Singing in the hall was also part of the music and dance.

The former kings created music not merely to delight the heart and please the ear with resonant, pleasing sounds. Their purpose was to accord with the patterns of Heaven and Earth, allow the myriad things to fulfill their natures, and harmonize the relationships among the pitch pipes. These pipes were twelve bamboo tubes used to establish pitches, each corresponding to one of the twelve months.

Music was also meant to harmonize the Qi of Yin and Yang, so that the winds from the eight directions each found their proper balance. The various tones were to be in harmony, and the winds from all eight directions were to be peaceful. The eight kinds of sound also had to be performed with measure and according to fixed standards. Each sound had its proper limits and took its place in sequence with the others.

In this way, each of the nine songs could be suited to its proper purpose.

Elegant music was performed in nine movements using metal instruments such as bells, and was called “metal music.” When a Jin writer discussed music, he said that the performance began with the singing of “Sixia,” accompanied first by metal instruments, and then continued with the music of “Wenwang.” The “nine performances” refers to the “Nine Xia,” also known as nine pieces of music. They are “Wangxia,” “Zhaoxia,” “Naxia,” “Zhangxia,” “Qixia,” “Zuxia,” “Jingxia,” “Shanxia,” and “Sixia.”

When the Son of Heaven traveled, “Wangxia” was played; when the armies met, “Sixia” was played; when sacrificial animals were brought forth, “Zhaoxia” was played; when guests arrived from the four quarters, “Naxia” was played; when a minister had rendered meritorious service, “Zhangxia” was played; when the ruler’s wife took part in assisting at a sacrifice, “Qixia” was played; when members of the clan served and presented offerings, “Zuxia” was played; when a ruler traveled, “Jingxia” was played; and when guests left after becoming drunk, “Shanxia” was played. Together, these nine pieces were called the “nine performances,” and were also known as the “Nine Songs” or “Nine Movements.” Hence the saying, “The Shao music was performed in nine movements.”

When music was performed at the Round Mound, a circular earthen altar used in ancient rites to Heaven, the spirits would descend. The altar was built of earth, rounded in shape, and located in the southern suburbs of the capital.

When music was performed at the Square Marsh, a square earthen altar used in ancient rites to Earth, the earth spirits would rise. This altar, too, was built of earth and stood in the northern suburbs of the capital. The spirits of Heaven were called “Bright Spirits,” and those of Earth “Hidden Spirits.”

When stone chimes and other instruments were struck, the many animals would dance to the music; when the performance reached its ninth movement, auspicious birds would fly in. Such music could reach Heaven and Earth above and transform customs below. It was music of profound De (Virtue), the inner spirit of elegant music, and music of flourishing De.

The Zhou, Lu, and Shang dynasties all possessed flourishing De, and these pieces of music expressed the flourishing De of those three dynasties.

After the death of the enlightened rulers, customs gradually declined, and elegant music fell into disrepair and was abandoned.

The “Illustrious King” refers to the Duke of Zhou. By the time of Duke Ai of Lu, the systems of ritual and music had fallen into decline. The musicians scattered and went their separate ways. In ancient times, the Son of Heaven and the feudal lords had music played during meals, with musicians assigned to each course. The Grand Musician, Zhi, played for the first course and later went to Qi. The musician for the second course, Gan, later went to Chu. Liao, who played for the third course, went to Cai; Que, who played for the fourth, went to Qin. Fang Shu was skilled at beating drums and went to the area around Hanoi. Wu, who played the handheld pellet drum, was known as “Boot Wu” and later settled near the Han River. Yang, a junior musician skilled at striking the chime stones, and Xiang also went east to the coast. In this way, ritual and music fell into disuse, and the musicians all departed.

Music that indulged the senses then gradually arose.

Here, “indulgence” means being absorbed in desire and giving oneself over to it. The commentary uses the theory of Yin-Yang to explain that excessive desire harms both body and mind, and can even leave the spirit confused and out of balance, as though overwhelmed by desire. This state is therefore called “being submerged.” The paired expression “indulgence and submersion” emphasizes becoming so absorbed in desire that one cannot break free.

Thus, in the time of Xia Jia, the “Song of the Broken Axe” appeared. According to the account, it went: “Alas, everyone is doomed to die!”

After this, “Eastern tones” began to appear—that is, the tones associated with the East, which belongs to Wood and corresponds to the Jue tone among the five musical tones. The commentary says that the Jue tone is harmonious and calm, able to cultivate one’s disposition and nourish body and mind.

Yin Xin was King Zhou of Shang. “Mimi” was the name of a melody and also referred to music that was decadent, indulgent, and alluring. According to tradition, licentious music was popular in the times of both Jie and Zhou. The music composed by King Zhou was known as “Northern Music.”

People in the Zheng and Wei regions enjoyed music about the love between men and women, which gave rise to songs about the Qin and Wei rivers and Sangzhong. The Qin and Wei were two rivers in the regions of Zheng and Wei. Sangzhong was said to be a place where men and women met in secret. The Book of Songs says: “He arranged to meet me at Sangzhong, invited me to Shangguan, then escorted me to the banks of the Qi.” The passage uses these songs to explain how local customs of the time led men and women to meet secretly in the countryside.

People in the Chu and Yue regions revered martial courage, and so songs arose about braving fire and water. According to tradition, the King of Chu admired martial valor. He once set fire to his palace and ordered his soldiers to put it out as if they were charging into battle, rewarding and punishing them according to their deeds. The soldiers smeared mud over their bodies and rushed to fight the flames, but more than three thousand of them were burned to death.

People always sing of what they love and pursue, and songs can also make people sorrowful. This kind of “sorrow” is close to worry, but does not reach its full intensity, so listeners weep when they hear the song. What moves the heart finds expression in the voice, and the voice can in turn move the heart. Thus, when sorrow and joy stir the emotions, they give rise to sounds that are plaintive and urgent, or slow and mournful, as well as melodies associated with the region around the Pu River.

The scripture also says that, when King Zhou acted without the Dao, a musician took his zither and drowned himself in the Pu River. The music made its listeners weep precisely because it could move the human heart.

The tyrannical and foolish King Zhou ruled without regard for the Way. A court musician threw himself into the Pu River with his zither and drowned. A musician from the state of Wei named Shi Juan was passing by when he heard music coming from the river. He wrote down the melody. Later, in the state of Jin, he performed it. The Jin musician Shi Kuang told the king of Jin, “This is a melody that came from the Pu River. It is the music of a doomed state.” The melody was later banned and no longer performed.

Thoughts of sensual indulgence often arise from this kind of music. Li Yannian therefore composed a song praising an incomparable beauty, and Emperor Wu of Han became absorbed in extravagance and licentiousness.

“Extravagance and licentiousness” refers to indulgent excess; “seductive beauty” describes strikingly beautiful features. Li Yannian was exceptionally handsome. Emperor Wu took him as a consort and appointed him Commandant of Musical Harmony, an official responsible for palace music. The emperor ordered him to compose a new song, and Li Yannian danced and sang: “In the south there is a beauty, lovely as jade. One glance, and a city falls; a second glance, and a kingdom falls. Though cities and kingdoms may fall, such a beauty is hard to find again.” Emperor Wu greatly favored him and asked those around him, “Is there anyone in the world as beautiful as this?” They replied, “Li Yannian has a younger sister of extraordinary beauty, rarely matched in the world.” The emperor summoned her. Seeing that her beauty was indeed unrivaled, he took her as a consort. People at the time said, “A female and a male, flying together into the Purple Palace,” the residence of the emperor.

The musician Yongmen of Qi performed “Autumn Wind Through the Pine Bridge” for the king of Qi. Its melody was deeply mournful. As he listened, the king felt cold and wanted to put on a lined robe.

When Jing Ke set out for Qin, Song Yi struck a zhu, an ancient plucked string instrument, on the banks of the Yi River and sang for him.

Jing Ke was from the state of Wei. He once went to Qin, intending to avenge Crown Prince Dan of Yan by assassinating the King of Qin. When he left Yan and reached the banks of the Yi River, the crown prince saw him off and clasped his hands in farewell. Song Ruyi struck the zhu, an ancient stringed instrument, while Jing Ke drew his sword and danced. He sang, “The wind sighs; the waters of the Yi run cold. This hero sets out, never to return.” His tragic resolve moved a white rainbow to stretch across the sun. Jing Ke ultimately failed to assassinate the King of Qin. He died in the Qin palace, and indeed never returned.

Those who heard the song stared wide-eyed, their hair standing on end and even bursting through their hats.

King Qian of Zhao was exiled to Fangling. Zhao Wu, a son of King Ling of Zhao, was demoted to Fangling after committing an offense, and he often yearned for his homeland. Filled with homesickness, he composed “The Pivot of Mountains and Rivers.” He sang “The Sun Ballad” while sitting and “The Sun Pivot” while walking. The lyrics went: “On the mountain grow trees; the trees have branches. My heart longs for you—do you know?”

Those who heard the song choked with emotion and wept for a long time. These were sounds of indulgence, desolation, indignation, and grief, not music that accorded with reason or embodied the Virtue of moderation.

Emperor Huan of the Han dynasty, the Eastern Han ruler, listened to “Chu Qin,” a musical piece from the state of Chu, which included the lyrics “The Grievance of the Chu Maiden.” Hearing its mournful and sorrowful strains, Emperor Huan too felt grief and heartache. He sighed, “If playing the qin can reach such a state, surely this counts as music?”

“Well said! When someone plays the qin like this, can it not be called music? Music should let the ears hear beautiful sounds and bring peace to the heart. Only then can it be called joyful. But now the qin sounds sorrowful, and its listeners are heartsick, singing with tears in their eyes. This is treating sorrow as joy. If sorrow is taken for pleasure, how can it be called joy?

When melodies of grief, resentment, longing, and sorrow are played on pipes and strings, listeners either sink into indulgence or grow sorrowful. Indulgence disrupts the proper boundaries between men and women; sorrow comes from being stirred by mournful melodies. How can such music be what is called elegant music?

Thus, when crooked and improper sounds move the heart, disordered Qi (vital energy) arises in response. As this Qi gathers and takes shape, licentious music emerges. When upright sounds move the heart, peaceful and harmonious Qi arises in response. As this Qi gathers and takes shape, harmonious music emerges.

When music is not harmonious and smooth, people’s Qi becomes congested and blocked. Once Qi is congested and blocked, thoughts that violate what is right, along with deceit and falsehood, readily arise, and people act with reckless abandon. Therefore, crooked sounds and alluring, disorderly sights should not linger in people’s senses and minds; licentious sounds and improper rites should not enter their hearts. The purpose of elegant music is to bring peace to the heart and keep it from becoming disordered.

That is why poems and hymns are composed to express the heart’s intent; bells and drums regulate hearing; and dances adorned with feathers and banners discipline sight. In this way, those who listen are not seduced by music and led astray in spirit, and those who watch are not bewitched by dance and led into crooked ways of thought. When ears and eyes are not bewitched, crooked sounds cannot enter. When such sounds cannot enter, people’s emotions and nature can remain at peace within the heart. Inner peace in one’s emotions and nature is true joy.”

Chapter Eight: Upholding Trust

Trustworthiness is the foundation of conduct, and conduct is the foundation of being a person.

Without trustworthiness, a person cannot establish themselves. Thus it is said, “Better to give up food than to give up trustworthiness.” The Analects says, “If a person is not trustworthy, I do not know what they can do.”

Without practical action, a person cannot achieve anything; without sincerity, action has no firm foundation. Sincerity is to action what a boat is to crossing a river, and what an oar is to a boat’s forward movement. How can anyone cross a great river without a boat? How can anyone travel by boat without an oar? Today, some people want to do good but do not know how to put it into practice through action. They are like people who want to cross a river without a boat. Others want to act but do not know how to establish themselves through sincerity. They are like people who want to move a boat forward without an oar.

This is like setting out for Ying, the capital of Chu in the south, while heading toward Mount Ming in the north: one only gets farther and farther from the right road. Since ancient times, everyone has faced death, but without sincerity a person cannot establish themselves. Thus, the Zhouyi (Book of Changes), in the Zhongfu hexagram, which symbolizes sincerity, says, “The pig and fish are sincere.” This means that sincerity can reach even pigs and fish and move them. An old commentary explains that the Zhongfu hexagram presides over sincerity: when this hexagram is obtained in divination, what one hopes for will come to pass, and a hunt will yield a catch. It is cited, therefore, to illustrate sincerity.

This is indeed true: without sincerity, nothing can be accomplished. Duke Huan of Qi did not break his pledge to Cao Mo, a general of Lu, and Duke Wen of Jin did not abandon his vow to attack Yuan. When Duke Wen led his troops against Yuan, he ordered them to carry only three days’ worth of provisions and agreed that they would withdraw once the food ran out. After three days of laying siege, Yuan had still not surrendered, so Duke Wen prepared to pull back. Then someone from inside the city reported that its provisions were exhausted and it would surrender the next day, and urged him to stay and wait. Duke Wen replied that he had promised his soldiers they would return when their three days’ provisions were gone. To break that promise would be to lose their trust. Even if he gained the city, he would not do so at the cost of his integrity. He therefore ordered the withdrawal. When Yuan heard what had happened, it asked to surrender of its own accord. The feudal lords trusted and followed Duke Wen because he had kept his word during the attack on Yuan.

Wu Qi, too, did not fail to honor the reward he had promised after moving a carriage pole.

Wu Qi was a general of the state of Wei. He wanted to attack Qin, but worried that his soldiers would not trust him. So he buried a chariot shaft outside the eastern gate and posted a notice: “Whoever moves this chariot shaft to the western gate will receive a hundred mu of farmland, a residence, and a hundred jin of gold.” After three days, no one dared to move it. Wu Qi changed the notice: “Whoever moves the chariot shaft will receive five hundred mu of farmland, a residence, and five hundred jin of gold.” Then a man came forward and moved it, and Wu Qi rewarded him as promised. Afterward, Wu Qi gathered those willing to enlist and led them against Qin, ultimately winning. This shows that Wu Qi did not break his word: he fulfilled his promise to reward the man for moving the chariot shaft.

Duke Wen of Wei did not break his agreement with the official in charge of the forests, mountains, lakes, and marshes. The duke and the official had arranged to go hunting the next day. When heavy rain began as they were setting out, those around the duke urged him to cancel the trip. Duke Wen said, “I do not have to catch any animals, but I have already made an appointment with the official. I cannot break my word.” So he went through the rain to keep the appointment.

It is by keeping one’s word that virtue can shine across Heaven and Earth, and one’s name endure through past and present. Spring should bring gentle breezes. If the wind comes at the wrong time, flowers cannot flourish, and spring’s work of bringing forth the myriad things is impaired. Summer should bring heat. If the summer heat fails to arrive, plants cannot grow, and summer’s work of nourishing the myriad things is impaired. Autumn should bring rain. If the rain fails to come, the grains cannot ripen, and autumn’s work of bringing the myriad things to harvest is impaired. Winter should bring severe cold. If the cold fails to arrive, water and earth cannot freeze and settle, and winter’s work of quieting and storing away the myriad things is impaired. Even though Heaven and Earth possess a spiritual nature, when the weather is out of order, the functions of the four seasons are disrupted. How much more so for human beings?

Long ago, the state of Qi attacked the state of Lu and demanded Lu’s Cen Ding, a precious bronze vessel. The ruler of Lu wanted to pass off another vessel as the Cen Ding and asked Qi to form an alliance. The ruler of Qi did not believe him, so he sent someone to ask Liu Ji whether the vessel truly was the Cen Ding. Liu Ji was renowned in Lu for his integrity.

The state of Lu sent someone to ask Liu Ji for the Cauldron. Liu Ji said, “You regard the Cauldron as a treasure of your state. Trustworthiness, too, is the foundation on which I stand. You now wish me to destroy that foundation so that your state may be preserved. This is something I cannot do.” He then presented the Cen Cauldron.

Later, Xiao Lin She brought a city under his control and sought refuge in Lu. Lu sent Jilu, also known as Zilu, a disciple of Confucius, to ask him not to form an alliance with the ruler of Lu. So Lu dispatched Zilu. Zilu declined to go. Jisun said, “A great state with a thousand chariots does not trust its treaty, but trusts a single word from you. What could you possibly refuse?” Zilu replied, “The other party does not treat me as a minister, yet wants to use my words to bring this about. That is not right, so I cannot go.”

Liu Ji and Zilu were both ordinary men of Lu, yet in their humble homes they upheld trustworthiness, and their reputations spread throughout the world. Thus the neighboring state of Qi did not trust the treaties of great states, but valued the words of these two men. Is trustworthiness not an important virtue?

Duke Xiao of Qin sent Shang Yang to attack Wei, and Wei sent Prince Ang to meet him in battle. Shang Yang said to Prince Ang, “In the past, you and I were friends. Now we serve two different states, and I cannot bear to fight against you. I hope we can hold a drinking and alliance ceremony and have both armies cease hostilities.” Prince Ang agreed and went to the meeting. But Shang Yang had armed soldiers lying in wait beforehand. He seized Prince Ang and then defeated the Wei army.

After King Hui ascended the throne, he suspected Shang Yang of treachery and had him executed by being torn apart by chariots. Shang Yang was a high minister of Qin, famed throughout the world, yet for the sake of a small, immediate advantage, he forsook the great principle of trustworthiness. One act of betrayal brought him a lifetime of condemnation; in the end, he suffered a cruel death and became a laughingstock to the world. Are the harms caused by breaking trust not severe?

A promise must be kept: this is the mark of trustworthiness. For words to inspire trust, what matters is that one is already trustworthy before speaking. For the same commands to be carried out, what matters is sincerity beyond the words themselves. A noble person knows the value of trustworthiness, and so acts with sincerity and keeps faith; whether giving orders or taking action, they never violate it. When trustworthiness is used in teaching, moral instruction takes root; when used in managing affairs, those affairs are set right; when used to reassure people far away, they come over and submit; when used in granting rewards and punishments, these are administered fairly and clearly. From this we can see that trustworthiness is indeed a very important virtue.

When the Seven Luminaries—the Sun, Moon, and five planets of Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth—move according to their proper courses, the signs in the heavens appear clear and orderly. When the five planets line up like a string of pearls, and the Sun and Moon seem to join together, these too are signs of harmony in the heavens.

When the five human dispositions accord with what is proper, people’s conduct becomes upright and admirable. Good conduct lies in following what is right; people often go wrong because they violate it. Thus, when the Seven Luminaries stray from their proper courses, the signs in the heavens change; when the five dispositions violate what is right, human relationships and social order fall into disarray. Since antiquity, there has been no case of altered heavenly signs bringing no calamity, or of social order collapsing without harming human conduct.

The waters of mountains and rivers flow together into the sea because water naturally tends toward low ground. The sea does not actively seek out the streams. This illustrates the principle of following the natural course of things. The text uses the Hexagram Jian (Difficulty), one of the sixty-four hexagrams in the Book of Changes, to explain this point. Its image is Water above and Mountain below. Water on a mountain cannot settle securely, so the hexagram is called “Difficulty.” The land is lower in the southeast and higher in the northwest; water tends downward and flows with the terrain. For someone who receives this hexagram in divination, traveling southeast is favorable because it follows the prevailing course. The northeast is unfavorable: climbing toward the high mountains goes against it.

Leaving damp places for dry ones is the tendency of fire; avoiding high ground and flowing toward low ground is the nature of water. When spring water is channeled into a mountain stream, it naturally flows downward. If water is forced uphill, it is made to move against its course, and can hardly flow upward. Even water, though without awareness, avoids obstruction and follows what is favorable. How much more should people do so?

Loyalty, filial devotion, benevolence, and righteousness are expressions of virtue in accord with what is right. Defiance, arrogance, and discourtesy are virtue in violation of what is right. Following what is right is the gateway to good fortune; going against it is where calamity gathers. It is therefore clear that acting against one’s nature brings difficulty, while following one’s nature makes things easier.

Meng Shuo was a warrior during the reign of King Zhou of Shang, and he was very strong.

Goodness is the guiding principle of conduct; it must never be set aside, even for a moment. If it can be set aside, it is not goodness. People need goodness just as the head needs a hat and the feet need shoes. To go without a hat is to violate customary norms; to walk without shoes is like living without civilization. Some people today appear virtuous in public but do wrong in private. They are like someone who puts on a hat and shoes in the morning, then at night uses the shoes to protect a sharp weapon.

Fragrant plants grow alone among the mountain rocks, yet they do not hide their scent because no one sees them. Springs flow unseen, yet the depths of a ravine do not rob their water of its clarity. When people are in private, how can they change their principles just because no one is watching? So remain vigilant where the eyes cannot see, and keep a sense of reverence where the ears cannot hear. In a room alone, act as though guests were present; in an empty place, act as though someone were beside you. Thus Lian Ai did not change his integrity when acting at night.

The phrase “acting in darkness” here means acting at night; “night union” means the same thing. This illustrates how rulers and worthies of earlier generations upheld ritual norms and did not change their conduct when circumstances were hidden.

At night, Lian Huan was riding in a carriage. When he passed the gate of the ruler of Wei, he got down, bowed toward the gate, and only then walked past. The ruler of Wei heard the carriage arrive at the gate, but did not hear its wheels pass by. He said, “That must be Lian Huan.”

Yan Hui did not change his bearing when bathing at night. When King Goujian of Yue was imprisoned in a stone chamber, he still observed the rites between ruler and minister. It is said that while he and Fan Li were held captive by the king of Wu, they continued to treat one another according to those rites and did not abandon them.

Ji Que was farming in the fields on the outskirts when his wife brought him a meal. When they met, they still bowed to one another as host and guest; the respect between husband and wife had not diminished.

These examples all show that people should carefully uphold goodness even in hidden places, and should not change their inner disposition or conduct just because their actions are unseen and unheard. Heaven may seem high and distant, yet its hearing and observation reach everywhere. The sun may seem far away, yet its light shines upon every place. The spirits may seem profound and hidden, yet their scrutiny is clear and exact. The Book of Songs says, “Look at yourself alone in your room, and do not neglect yourself in the dark corner.” “The dark corner” refers to the northwest corner of a house.

No one can do evil in secret without being discovered, so do not assume that no one has seen. “The spirits” means that when people act in hidden places, in the end everything is still seen clearly. The Book of Songs says, “Consider yourself at home; even in the hidden corner of the room, you dare not give yourself over to excess.”

The “hidden corner” refers to the secluded northwest corner of a house.

No one can do evil in secret without being discovered, so do not assume that no one has seen. However hidden a deed may be, it will eventually come to light; however concealed a foolish act may be, it will eventually be exposed. People may cultivate their conduct in the open while secretly doing what is contrary to the Way, thinking that others will never know. Even if others do not know, the spirits and gods know; even if they do not know, you yourself know. To say that no one knows is like someone who covers his ears while stealing a bell and thinks that this way no one else can hear it. A disciple of Confucius rose early in the morning and diligently did good deeds; King of Dongping, in his private life at home, also took pleasure in doing good.

The King of Dongping was named Liu Cang. Someone asked him, “What do you take pleasure in?” He replied, “I take pleasure in doing good.”

Thus, if a person consistently does good, there will be no worry in the heart and no fear when facing the world. Standing alone, they will not be ashamed of their shadow; lying alone, they will feel no guilt. In this way, they can communicate upward with the spirits and gods and sustain human relationships below. Their De (Virtue/Power) extends through the unseen and human realms, and good fortune and auspicious signs will follow.

End of Liuzi, Volume Two

Liuzi, Volume Three

Commentary by Yuan Xiaozheng, Recording Officer of Bozhou

Esteeming Agriculture, Chapter Eleven

Clothing and food are the foundation of the people’s survival, and the people are the foundation of the state. The people depend on clothing and food as fish depend on water; the state depends on the people as a person depends on their feet to walk. Fish cannot live without water, people cannot walk without feet, and a state cannot be governed without its people. The former kings understood this, so they ensured the people had clothing and food. Thus, when the season for beginning farm work arrived, the star of agriculture appeared at dawn, and the constellations gathered in Zouzi, an ancient stellar region in the sky, …

“Farming” means cultivating the land. “Dan” refers to the first day of the first lunar month, and “xiang” means auspicious. The “auspicious month for farming” is the first day of the first lunar month.

At this time, Yang Qi is abundant, and the earth, plants, and trees begin to stir with new life. The Son of Heaven must personally plow a field in the eastern suburbs, choosing the first Hai day of the month; the empress must personally gather mulberry leaves in the northern suburbs, choosing the first Si day.

The state is not without farmers skilled in cultivation, yet the ruler still plows in person. Nor does the world lack women who know how to raise silkworms and weave cloth, yet the empress still gathers mulberry leaves herself. This is done, on the one hand, to prepare what is needed for ancestral sacrifices, and on the other, to set an example for the people and encourage them to take up farming and sericulture. The teachings of the Divine Farmer say: “If men in their prime do not farm, people somewhere under Heaven will go hungry; if women of weaving age do not weave, people somewhere under Heaven will go cold.” Therefore the Son of Heaven plows in person, and the empress gathers mulberry leaves and weaves in person, serving as examples to all under Heaven.

If people do not farm diligently, they cannot feed themselves; if they do not work hard at spinning and weaving, they will have no clothes to cover themselves. When the people have enough food and clothing, wrongdoing is less likely to arise. Society is stable, the people live in peace, and all under Heaven is at peace. In such times, the wise have no chance to exercise their schemes, and the brave have no occasion to show off their might.

Clothing and food are the foundations of the people’s lives; elaborate and beautiful crafts are secondary. Carving and ornamentation hinder agricultural production, while brocade weaving and making colorful ribbons take women away from their work at the loom. Damage to agriculture is the source of famine; obstruction of textile work is the cause of people going cold. When hunger and cold strike together, hoping to forbid people from becoming thieves is like adding fuel to a fire while wishing it would not blaze, or stirring the water while hoping it will grow still. It simply cannot be done.

Only when people have enough clothing and food do they understand honor and disgrace; only when granaries are full do they understand propriety. Therefore, those who establish a state must value practical production such as farming and sericulture, and set aside ornate, showy decoration. They should regard grain and cloth as treasures, and pearls and jade as no better than dirt. Why? Pearls and jade are only for people to admire, while grain and cloth have practical uses.

Suppose every tile and shard under Heaven were transformed into jade as fine as the famous He Shi jade, and every grain of sand and stone into a Sui pearl, the celebrated pearl of antiquity. Yet when flood, drought, or a year of poor harvest came, fine jade could not keep out the cold, and pearls could not satisfy hunger. Even a mirror bright enough to rival the sun, or a treasure that could shine in place of the moon, would ultimately be of no use. This is like painting Xi Shi so beautifully that people cannot find joy in the portrait, or carving peaches and plums so realistically that they still cannot be eaten.

Clothing and food are what people depend on to survive, and food is the most essential of the two. In bitter frost and snow, no matter how thick the rain cape, it can never take the place of a fur coat.

“Ku Mao” refers to thatch. It means that, with no cloth to make clothing, people could only drape themselves in thatch for cover. “Meng” was a type of clothing worn by women in ancient times. Today, in the Jiangdong region, thatch is also called “gai.”

A household might be completely empty, with no food to gather from plants and trees to stave off hunger. For this reason, when the sage kings of antiquity governed their states, they stored enough grain to feed the people for nine years, preparing for unexpected disasters. In the times of Yao and Tang, grain reserves were said to have lasted ten years. Later, when a flood lasted nine years and a drought seven, there were no scenes of starving people dying one after another and being left in ravines. This was because their reserves were ample.

Grain cannot be accumulated because too many people make their living by wandering from place to place and too few work the fields. The insects called ming and sheng hatch and die in autumn. Those that eat into the heart of grain seedlings are called “ming”; those that eat the stalk joints, “teng”; those that eat the roots, “shi”; and those that eat the leaves, “zei.” All four kinds of pests bring harm to people.

A season of rampant pests can leave people short of food for years. Today, one person farms while a hundred consume the grain. The harm caused by this is even greater than that caused by pests. Therefore, the sage kings of antiquity carefully set the farming calendar, encouraged and urged the people to cultivate fields and raise silkworms, reduced the number of people who did no productive work and lived at others’ expense, and cut spending on labor levies. In this way, the granaries would be full and the people would praise their rulers. Even if war broke out, or floods and droughts struck, the state would have no cause for concern, and the people would ultimately remain unharmed.

“Cherishing the People,” Chapter Twelve

Heaven gives life to and nourishes the people, and appoints rulers for them. A ruler is like Heaven to the people. Heaven nurtures all things chiefly through the harmony of Yin-Yang; a ruler guides the people through laws and instruction. Thus, when the seasons of cold and heat are out of order, illness and epidemics follow; when wind and rain fail to come in their proper seasons, harvests are poor. Punishments are to the people as cold and heat are to them; instruction and laws are as wind and rain. When punishments are wrongly applied, the people are harmed; when instruction and laws are excessive or out of balance, social customs deteriorate. So, in turbid water there are no fish able to flick their tails freely; in unstable, shifting soil, trees cannot grow for many years; and under oppressive laws, the people cannot live in comfort and joy.

Governing the people through laws is like tuning the strings of a zither: if the large string is stretched too tight, the small string will snap; once the small string snaps, the large one will be affected too. Cold feet can harm the heart; the people’s hardship can damage the state. When the feet are warm, the heart is at ease; when the people live comfortably, the state is peaceful. Therefore, those skilled at governing a state make benevolence their foundation and do not put harshness and severity first. They temper punishments and preserve lives, reduce forced labor so the people can rest and recover, lighten taxes so they are not deprived of their possessions, and avoid disrupting the farming seasons so the people’s daily needs are met. In this way, every household can prosper and the state can grow wealthy, ultimately bringing peace and stability.

The relationship between the people and the ruler is like that between children and parents. It has never happened that parents are well off while their children are poor, or that parents are poor while their children are well off. Thus, when the people are prosperous, it is not only the people who prosper; the state prospers as well. And when the people are impoverished, it is not only the people who suffer; the state is impoverished too.

The people’s prosperity is not merely the prosperity of individuals; it is also the prosperity of the state. When the people are hungry, thirsty, and deprived, their hardship is not merely personal; it concerns the state as well. As Ziyou said, “If the people are prosperous, how could their ruler fail to be prosperous? If the people are poor, how could their ruler be prosperous?” That is the point.

The sage kings of antiquity governed all under Heaven by following the seasons and nurturing all things. Plants and insects alike could each live in their proper place. Before otters held their “fish offering,” no nets were set to catch fish; before jackals held their “beast offering,” no hunts were made; before hawks began to prey, no nets were spread; and before frost and dew settled on the plants, they were not cut down. Plants are alive but have no awareness, while birds and beasts are aware but do not understand reason. Yet the sage kings extended benevolence and protection even to them. How much more, then, should they care for people? A ruler’s benevolence should therefore be as warm as spring, and his favor should moisten all things like rain. When a ruler nourishes all things with Virtue and generosity, the people will willingly lay down their lives for him.

In the past, the Great Tai of Zhou, also known as Gugong Danfu, ancestor of King Wen of Zhou, lived in Bin and practiced benevolence. The people flocked to join him. In one year, a market took shape; in two years, a walled town; and in three years, a capital. This was because his benevolence was abundant.

The ruler of Susa was lacking in benevolence, so the people abandoned him and went over to Shun. Another account says that after Shun attacked Susa, its people abandoned their ruler and submitted to Shun. It is impossible to determine which account came first.

Benevolence draws people to one’s side and is stronger than metal or stone: metal and stone can be melted, but people’s hearts cannot easily be scattered. A ruler is like the soil, and the people are like plants. We have never heard of fertile soil where plants do not flourish, nor of a benevolent ruler whose people do not prosper.

The ruler regards the people as his body, and the people regard the ruler as their heart. When the heart delights in something, the body will surely act in response; when the ruler delights in something, the people will surely follow. We have never seen a heart take pleasure in something without the body responding, nor a ruler desire something without the people following.

The people follow the ruler just as grass bends with the wind and water takes the shape of its vessel. Thus, the ruler’s De (Virtue/Power) is like the wind and the vessel, while the people’s dispositions are like grass and water. When the wind blows east, the grass bends east; when it blows west, the grass bends west. It changes with the wind’s direction. When water is poured into a vessel, it takes a square shape if the vessel is square, and a round shape if the vessel is round. It changes with the vessel’s shape.

Ministers and subjects serve the ruler by following his conduct, just as a shadow follows a body and an echo answers a sound. This is no empty claim. What those above favor, those below often pursue with even greater enthusiasm. The Book of Odes says, “It is truly easy to entice people”; this refers to how people follow those in higher positions. In the past, Duke Huan of Qi liked to wear purple, so everyone in the capital of Qi began wearing brightly colored clothes. Duke Wen of Jin disliked wearing lambskin robes, so his ministers all wore robes made from ewes’ skins. A lambskin robe was made from the hide of a young sheep; the ewe mentioned here is a female sheep, though some say it refers to an old sheep.

Duke Ai of Lu liked the dress of Confucian scholars, so people throughout the state began wearing Confucian robes. King Wuling of Zhao liked the heguan, a kind of feathered headpiece, so the people of his state began wearing it too. Purple was not a proper color, the heguan was not an auspicious ornament, and Confucian robes were not ordinary everyday clothing at the time. Nor was the he’s feather suited to adorn a cap. Yet people still rushed to imitate these fashions because the ruler favored them.

King Ling of Chu admired slender waists, so his consorts and attendants restricted their diets and bound their waists. Many starved to death as a result. King Goujian of Yue esteemed courage and once bowed to a fighting frog.

King Goujian of Yue prized courage and martial prowess. He gathered a force to destroy the state of Wu and sought out brave men from across the land. Once, as he rode in his carriage, he saw a frog puffing itself up in a wheel rut, as if to stand against the oncoming wheel. The king stepped down and bowed to it. The brave men then imitated the frog’s boldness, and in time Yue finally defeated Wu. This shows how powerful a warrior’s courage can be.

As a result, the people of Yue came to regard their lives lightly, and many died in battle. People cherish life and abhor death. Why, then, do people now treat the life they cherish lightly and move instead toward the death they abhor? It is because they follow what their ruler esteems.

In the times of Yao and Shun, nearly every household could receive a reward; in the times of Jie and Zhou, people were executed one after another. This does not mean that all the people under Yao and Shun were naturally benevolent and righteous, while those born under Jie and Zhou were all wicked. The difference in how good and evil were expressed arose from the influence of prevailing customs and instruction. A worthy ruler should therefore take care in what he esteems, using it to set the customs of the age aright, establish good practices, and influence later generations.

Some say that even when a ruler sets an example, the people may not all follow his preferences, and that people are not necessarily alike. Such a claim does not truly understand the principle. Why? Even while Yao and Shun ruled, there were men like the Four Fiends who did evil; while King Zhou of Yin ruled, three worthy ministers still held fast to the right path. Emperor Wen of Han prized frugality, yet some people among the common folk lived extravagantly; Duke Jing of Qi prized luxury, yet Yan Ying was extremely frugal.

Winter is governed by Yin, yet cold and heat can alternate within it. Xiao Hill is a mountain where flames arise on their own: the flames often appear in spring and die out in autumn. The mountain extends for a thousand li, with flames spread throughout it. Summer is governed by Yang, yet frost can fall, as can graupel—precipitation in which rain and snow fall together.

If even the workings of Heaven and Earth cannot remain wholly and consistently Yin or Yang, how could a worthy or sage ruler make all the people entirely alike? Thus, even a carefully calibrated balance beam may still be off by the tiniest fraction; and even with large units of weight such as the jun and shi, a weighing may not be entirely free of error.

Summer is governed by Yang energy, yet frost can still form and hail can still fall. The “snow pellets” mentioned here are a mixture of rain and snow falling together. Even the workings of Heaven and Earth cannot be wholly one-sided toward Yin or Yang. How, then, could worthy rulers or sages make all the people alike?

Thus, even when a balance beam is set straight, it may still have slight errors; and even when large scales and small measures appear balanced, there may be small differences. Consider the rule of a state: during the reign of Tang Yao, the world was generally at peace, yet the Four Fiends still caused disorder. People nevertheless said Yao governed well, because most people lived in peace. During the reign of Yin Zhou, the world was generally in turmoil, yet three men upheld the right way and governed well. People nevertheless said King Zhou was corrupt, because most people were in disorder. Emperor Wen of Han valued frugality, yet some people were still extravagant. People still said the customs of the time were frugal, because most people were frugal. Duke Jing of Qi was extremely extravagant, while Yan Ying practiced frugality in his own life. People still said Qi was extravagant, because most people were extravagant.

Water is by nature clear and cold, yet Huayang, a place in the south belonging to Liang, has hot springs. People still say water is cold, because most water is cold. Fire is by nature hot, yet at Mount Xiao there is cold fire. People still say fire is hot, because most fire is hot. Fierce winds raise waves, making the water’s surface uneven; peaks tower high while valleys lie low, far apart from one another, yet from a distance they still appear level. This is because people look at the whole.

Therefore, when people discuss things, they usually make general judgments based on what is most common. When listening to others speak, attend to the overall meaning behind their words. Do not cling to the literal wording and thereby lose their intent.

“Guarding through Models,” Chapter Fourteen. Sui Chang Kuang’s commentary says: “‘Guarding through Models’ means using methods as a safeguard. The general judgments discussed above grasp the broad pattern of things.”

Law and statecraft are the key means by which a ruler governs a country, and the pivot of good government. Statecraft is held within the ruler’s heart and adapts flexibly to particular circumstances; law is established outwardly and restrains and governs people according to the conditions of the time. People act in accordance with the ruler’s Dao and statecraft without knowing the strategies behind them: this is called “statecraft.” When teachings and commands are made public so that people know what they must observe, this is called “law.”

A ruler uses Dao and statecraft to uphold instruction and govern the world, just as Heaven and Earth transform the myriad things through the movement of Qi. Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things through the transformation of Qi, yet its traces cannot be seen. A ruler instructs the people through Dao and statecraft without revealing their form. Thus, Heaven and Earth appear wondrous through the transformation of Qi, while a ruler appears spiritually potent through Dao and statecraft. Dao and statecraft achieve their subtlety through what is hidden and unseen; laws and commands work by making clear distinctions. Once simple, honest customs have declined, people develop a spirit of contention. When private interests and deceit arise, laws must be established to set people’s hearts right.

“Correction” means setting things right. Laws are established and the people instructed so that they understand the proper standards.

A ruler who founds a state and governs its people, however skilled in administration, cannot govern without relying on laws. Thus, although people in the time of Shennong maintained their goodness without punishments, a ruler in office must not therefore abolish laws and suppose that the people can be governed without them. Shun held a shield and axe, bringing the Miao tribes into submission.

The point here is that Shun showed people the proper standards through ritual and dignity. At first, the Miao did not submit to him, so Shun danced with a shield and axe between the two stairways of the court. Later, the Miao came and submitted of their own accord. The Book of Documents says, “After seventy days, the Miao came and submitted.”

When campaigning against enemies, one cannot simply set aside one’s armor and expect to subdue them. Establishing laws is like being skilled at driving a chariot: one must observe the horse’s strength, assess the condition of the road, adjust the reins and bit, and guide the horse in keeping with its momentum. In this way, even when climbing a slope or taking a dangerous road, one can avoid the disaster of overturning or losing control; even on difficult terrain, the chariot will not overturn.

Even when traveling through dangerous places or journeying over long distances, one can still avoid straying from the right path. A ruler is like a charioteer, laws and ordinances are like reins, the people are like horses, the tracks a horse follows are like the principles of governance, and the person holding the reins is like the one who upholds the laws. A charioteer wants the horses to follow the tracks; a wise ruler wants the people to follow a reasonable order of governance. If the reins are too loose or too tight, the horses will stray from the tracks. If laws and ordinances are unsuited to the times, people will act against what is reasonable. Thus, a wise ruler is committed to upholding the laws while adapting measures to changing circumstances. If something benefits the people, there is no need to imitate antiquity in every respect; if it harms affairs, old institutions must not be copied blindly.

When the Xia and Shang dynasties declined, they failed to change their laws and so perished. When the Three Dynasties rose to power, they did not simply inherit one another’s institutions, yet each established a royal legacy. Yao and Shun governed differently, but the De (Virtue) of both reached throughout the world. Shang Tang and King Wu of Zhou pursued different policies, yet the reputations of both endured for later generations. This shows that laws should change with the times; they are not fixed forever. Today, those who administer the laws are absorbed in ancient ordinances, while Confucian scholars cling to old rites. They do not understand that human circumstances change and that laws should adapt accordingly. Such people are fit only to enforce existing laws and teach from them; they are not fit to discuss with how laws should be made or how instruction should be established.

Therefore, the wise make laws, while the foolish are bound by them. The worthy reform rites, while the unworthy cling to old ones. Those who are rigidly attached to legal provisions are not fit to discuss affairs with; those who make laws should not reject change by relying only on old principles. To pass the laws of one particular age on to people a hundred generations later is like using one garment for both cold and heat, or one medicine to treat every illness. To use the rites of one particular age to instruct society forever is like carving a mark on a boat to find a sword that has fallen into the water, or standing guard by a tree stump, waiting for a rabbit to dash itself to death.

A man from the state of Song dropped his sword into the water while riding in a boat. He carved a mark on the side of the boat, then waited until it reached shore before diving in to search for the sword beneath the mark. Another man was startled while hunting, and a rabbit ran into a tree stump and died. Someone happened upon the rabbit and picked it up, then spent the whole day watching the stump, waiting for another rabbit to come and dash itself to death.

Therefore, establishing laws and ordinances is the origin of ritual order, but it is not governance itself. Ritual order provides the foundation on which moral instruction takes shape, but it is not the means by which that instruction is put into practice. The foundation of moral instruction lies in adapting to the times; the foundation of governing a state lies in taking account of people’s circumstances. No one can govern a state well without considering people’s circumstances, and no one can complete the work of moral instruction without adapting to the times. Governing affairs of state by this principle prevents neglect.

Rewards and Punishments, Chapter Fifteen

In governing the people and managing subordinates, nothing is more proper and effective than laws and ordinances. In establishing laws and ordinances and putting moral instruction into practice, nothing is more essential than rewards and punishments. Rewards and punishments are vital instruments of the state, as well as the means by which those in authority direct and restrain people.

The celestial bodies therefore follow a set cycle that makes a year: one circuit around the heavens comprises 365 and one-quarter degrees. The sun and moon each follow their own regular course: the sun moves more slowly, making one circuit around the heavens in a year; the moon moves faster, making one circuit in a month.

A state relies on laws and moral instruction for its governance. As the celestial bodies move, the seasons take shape on earth; as laws are put into effect above, the results of good governance take shape among the people. In the movement of the celestial bodies, spring comes first, followed by … The sun and moon each follow their own regular course: the sun moves more slowly, making one circuit around the heavens in a year; the moon moves faster, making one circuit in a month.

A state must be governed through laws and moral instruction. As the Sun’s shadow moves across the sky, the four seasons take shape on Earth; when laws are put into effect above, social order is established among the people. The Sun’s passage first brings spring, followed by autumn. In the same way, laws should first reward and then punish. Thus, when the spring breeze rises, plants sprout and blossom; when autumn’s cold dew falls, their luxuriant leaves wither. Publicly rewarding those of virtue can encourage good conduct, while clearly punishing those at fault can restrain wrongdoing.

Those skilled at rewarding encourage good conduct by acting in keeping with what the people value. Those skilled at punishing prohibit wrongdoing by taking account of what the people abhor. In this way, rewards need not be numerous to encourage people to do good, and punishments need not be harsh to put an end to wrongdoing. When one person is rewarded, all under Heaven rejoice; when one person is punished, all under Heaven grow wary. Thus, a limited number of directives can achieve broad governance, and a small number of measures can produce great results.

Wang Liang was skilled at driving. He knew when horses were hungry or full and understood how to regulate their pace. He therefore did not need to lash them often to urge them on, yet could expect them to travel a thousand li. Still, the whip could not be dispensed with entirely, because horses sometimes ran wild and out of control.

The sage governs the state by using rank and reward to encourage good conduct, and benevolence and virtue to instruct and care for the people. If these measures are carried out, punishment can be set aside and peace and order achieved. Yet punishment cannot be abolished, because the people sometimes run wild as well. Thus, although rewards can encourage good conduct, punishment must still be available; although punishment can prohibit wrongdoing, rewards must still be available. Only when rewards are fair and punishments appropriate can the Way of governance be established.

The ruler holds the authority to reward and punish, using it to guide people toward good conduct. These measures have great influence: they can bring people benefit and inspire awe. Even the promise of a small benefit is enough to encourage people to do good; even a slight deterrent can restrain wrongdoing. How much more, then, can generous rewards encourage officials and subjects, and great authority govern the people? Once a reward has been decided upon, it must be granted as promised; once a punishment has been decided upon, it must be clearly and justly carried out. If rewards are promised but not delivered, people cannot be encouraged; if punishments are unclear, wrongdoing cannot be restrained. When good conduct can neither be encouraged nor wrongdoing prohibited, the boundaries between good and evil become confused.

Therefore, a wise ruler rewards good conduct and punishes evil not for personal reasons, but for the sake of the state. An act that accords with the ruler’s personal wishes but brings no benefit to the state is not rewarded; an act that goes against the ruler’s personal wishes but benefits the state is not punished for that reason. Punishment must be directed at those who have committed offenses, and rewards must be given to those who have rendered service. So long as rewards are granted as promised and punishments are clear, the people will obey, just as a boat travels along a river and a cart along a road, reaching its destination smoothly wherever it goes.

Words express principles, and principles are what words are grounded in. Names identify things, and things are what names refer to. When there are principles but no words, the principles cannot be explained; when there are things but no names, the things cannot be identified. Yet the fact that principles must be explained through words does not mean that principles are words; the fact that things must be identified by names does not mean that things are names. Trusting words alone and abandoning principles does not lead to a true grasp of principles; trusting names alone and ignoring things does not lead to true knowledge of things.

Thus, a wise person examines words in order to seek out principles, without abandoning the principles and clinging only to the wording. They check things against their names, without abandoning the things and keeping only the names. In this way, principles and words can correspond, and names and things can agree.

When people pass stories along, they often turn small matters into great ones, and falsehoods into truths. The farther a story spreads, the more its meaning strays; the less reliable a name becomes, the more it contradicts the reality. In the end, a dog may be described as resembling a person, and white may be called black. To say outright that a dog resembles a person or that white is black is plainly unreasonable. But if one draws an analogy at every step, comparing one thing to another, one might arrive at the claim that a dog resembles a jue, a kind of great ape; a jue resembles a ju, a macaque; and a ju resembles a person—so a dog, too, “resembles a person.” The classic also says that when a great ape reaches five hundred years of age, it becomes skilled at winning the favor of beautiful women.

Likewise, if white is said to resemble xiang, a pale yellow; bundled silk to resemble yellow; yellow to resemble vermilion; vermilion to resemble purple; purple to resemble qian, a shade of blue-green; and qian to resemble black, then white, in the end, can also be called black.

The claim that Huang Xuan—that is, the Yellow Emperor Xuanyuan—had “four faces” does not mean he had four faces and eight eyes. According to legend, when he governed the realm, he sent the feudal lords in four directions to carry out their duties. Later storytellers mistakenly took “four faces” to mean that the Yellow Emperor had four faces.

The claim that Kui had “one foot” does not necessarily mean that he had only one leg. The Lüshi Chunqiu records that Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius, “Is it true that Kui had only one foot?” Confucius replied that Kui could harmonize the six pitch standards and coordinate the eight tones; one such person was enough. Later people passed this down as saying that Kui had only one leg. The Zhuangzi also says that Kui walked unsteadily and had difficulty moving.

The jade stone bought by the Zhou people turned out to be a dead rat.

The people of Zhou admired uncarved jade, but did not know how to recognize it. Someone passed off a dead rat by the roadside as an uncarved piece of jade and sold it to a man from Zhou. The buyer wrapped it in five-colored silk, placed it in a precious box, and kept it as a treasure. People throughout the land also believed it was genuine jade. Bian He, who was skilled at identifying jade, heard about it and borrowed it to have a look. He saw that it was nothing but a dead rat and laughed as he pointed out the truth. The buyer was deeply ashamed and threw it away along with the precious box.

The “phoenix” of Chu was actually just a pheasant.

A man from Chu caught a pheasant. Seeing its feathers patterned in five colors, he took it for a phoenix and planned to present it to the ruler. On the way, he saw many such birds in the fields and asked someone about them. He was told that they were only pheasants, and the man from Chu went back in shame.

The wise man of Fool’s Valley looked like a fool, and was known as one.

Long ago, a worthy man lived in seclusion in Fool’s Valley and called himself Foolish Master. When people heard of him, they assumed he really was foolish. Only later did they learn that he was, in fact, virtuous and wise.

The beautiful daughter of Lord Huang acquired a reputation for ugliness.

Lord Huang had a daughter who, though thirty years old and still unmarried, had a dignified appearance. When someone asked about her, Lord Huang modestly said, “My daughter is ugly, so she has not yet married.” People took him at his word and thought she truly was ugly. Only after she was later taken as a consort did everyone learn how beautiful she was.

The “fengye” worn by people of Lu, a robe with wide sleeves, did not necessarily mean they possessed the character of Confucian scholars. “Feng” means wide; the fengye was a single robe with broad sleeves, worn by gentlemen learned in the Way and the arts. When Duke Ai of Lu saw that Confucius dressed differently from both officials and commoners, he wondered whether this was the clothing of a Confucian scholar, and so he asked him about it.

Dongguo played a bamboo flute but did not understand music.

A sheng resembles a cluster of stalks and has thirty-six pipes. King Xuan of Qi enjoyed listening to people play the sheng, and three thousand sheng players gathered beneath the palace gate. At the time, anyone who could play the sheng could receive a stipend. Dongguo the Retainer could not actually play, but he joined their ranks, held an empty sheng pipe to his mouth, and collected a stipend. Later, King Xuan died and King Min succeeded him. He ordered the players to perform one at a time. Since Dongguo the Retainer could not play, he had no choice but to flee. From then on, he never showed his face again.

“There are four sides and one foot” does not describe anything that truly exists, and “jade-unworked phoenix” is not an established name. The people of Lu gave an empty railing a fine-sounding title, while the Yellow Lord of Fool’s Valley was unjustly saddled with a bad name. This shows how hearsay can distort facts and reverse the relationship between names and things. Beauty and ugliness have no fixed labels, and there is no single standard for worthiness and foolishness. The failing of ordinary people is that they do not examine whether names match the things they refer to. They hear a story and believe it readily, as though it were the truth.

When people hear of the “Wild Elder,” they assume it means an old man from the countryside. In fact, “Wild Elder” is the name of a medicinal herb. People do not investigate its actual meaning and mistakenly think it refers to an elderly farmer.

When people hear of the “Riverbank Maiden,” they assume it means a woman. In fact, “fang” is the name of a medicinal herb—the herb now called fanda. People do not understand the name and mistakenly think it refers to a woman.

“Yao’s Elixir” and “Yu’s Grain” are also mistaken for food and drink, though both are names of medicines. “Yao’s Elixir” is sap from a tree; “Yu’s Grain” is a deep-red earth. According to legend, when the Great Yu was controlling the floods and ran short of food, he took this earth and ate it. That is why it came to be called “Yu’s Grain.” People do not understand the origins of these names and assume they refer to ordinary food and drink.

“Dragon Liver” and “Ox Knee” are also mistaken for meat, though both are names of medicinal plants. People do not know these medicinal names and assume they mean dragon meat and beef.

Someone hears the phrase “digging a well, finding a person” and assumes that someone was literally dug out of the earth. A household in the state of Song dug a well, and then…

A man in the state of Song had a well dug at home. He said, “By digging this well, my household has effectively gained another person.” People at the time did not understand what he meant. They thought his family had dug a person out of the earth around the well, and the story spread from person to person. When the ruler of Song heard about it, he summoned the man and asked him what had happened. The man replied, “My home is far from the water source. Before, every day we had to send someone to fetch water. Since digging the well, we save one person’s labor each day. When I said that digging the well was like gaining another person, I did not mean that we had dug someone out of the earth.”

A man from the state of Lu was reading the Records of the Grand Historian, but did not realize that a character in the text had been copied incorrectly. He said, “Three pigs crossed the river.” Someone asked what he meant, and he replied, “The pigs were struggling to walk across the water.” When Zixia, a disciple of Confucius, heard about this, he went to investigate and told him, “The record originally said that the ruler of Jin crossed the river on the day jǐhài. The person who copied the history wrote sān (‘three’) instead of jǐ, and shǐ (‘pig’) instead of hài.” The man from Lu did not believe him, so he went to Jin to ask. The ruler of Jin had indeed crossed the river on the day jǐhài, and only then did the man realize that the characters really had been copied incorrectly.

There are countless examples of this kind. Take the animals called fox and raccoon dog: they were originally named separately, but their names came to be combined into a single expression through the way they were used. The qióngqióng and jùxū are in fact one animal, yet their elaborate names led people to divide them into two. The qióngqióng has long forelegs, while the jùxū has long hind legs. This animal appears in the Yanmen Mountains; when it sees a person, the jùxū carries the qióngqióng away on its back.

These examples show that although people create names, they may thereby mistake the things themselves. Unless we carefully distinguish words, we cannot see the actual form of things. For this reason, the ancients were always cautious in using and transmitting names: they examined how words were used nearby and reasoned from principles at a distance, taking care not to let names distort facts. In this way, facts are not obscured by names, names have no chance to introduce falsehood, and the truth of things remains uncovered by neither. This is called “rectifying names”: making names correspond to reality.

This concludes volume three of the Liuzi.

Volume Four of the Liuzi

Annotated by Yuan Xiaozheng, Registrar and Military Adviser of Bozhou.

A name is an outward mark of a person’s fate, while speech is the voicing of a name. People’s appearances may be graceful or awkward; names may sound pleasing or unpleasant; and words may be kind or malicious. Beautiful names and words bring joy to the heart, while unpleasant ones make people uncomfortable. That is why the ancients chose auspicious and beautiful words when naming cities and children: a bad name can damage how something is regarded in people’s minds.

In the past, Bi Wan was thought to bring good fortune because his name carried the meanings “great” and “abundant.” Bi Wan was descended from Duke Bi and was the son of Duke Wen. Wan means “vast,” while Wei also means “great city.” Bi Wan later indeed became a high-ranking minister. At the end of the Zhou dynasty, Marquis Wen of Wei took the throne, and the state of Wei continued to grow in power until it eventually declared itself a kingdom.

The heir of the state of Jin was named Chou, and later he had a son named Chengshi. When Chengshi grew up, he killed Chou. The commentary connects “Chou” with “a hostile pair,” using this to illustrate the claim that an inauspicious name can foretell misfortune.

Yet people whose names suggest abundance and greatness are not necessarily all fortunate, and those whose names sound like hatred and enmity do not necessarily meet with disaster. People take pleasure in some names and dislike others because names themselves have favorable or unfavorable meanings. Nowadays, country folk who see a spider called the “joy-bringer” during the day take it as an auspicious sign that happiness is coming; if they dream of a sparrow at night, they take it as a sign that they will receive a noble title. But seeing the spider does not necessarily mean that joy will follow, nor does dreaming of a sparrow guarantee a high office. People welcome these omens only because their names sound auspicious.

There was a spring called “Thief Spring,” and Confucius—styled Zhongni and honorifically called Father Ni—refused to drink from it. There was a town called “Morning Song,” where Yan Yuan refused to stay. And when Zengzi reached a village called “Conquering One’s Mother,” he pulled up the reins and refused to enter. The commentary says that Zengzi was on his way to the state of Zheng when he passed through Conquering One’s Mother village. He stopped his carriage, then turned back.

There was a post station called “Cypress Man,” and the Han founder Liu Bang once fled from it by night.

Emperor Gaozu of Han, the founding emperor of the Han dynasty, was passing a pavilion at night and wanted to stay there. He asked his attendants, “What is this pavilion called?” They replied, “It is called Zhiren Pavilion.” Gaozu said, “If it were called Qiaoren Pavilion, it would sound as if it were urging people to leave at once, telling them to hurry away.” After he left, an assassin did indeed come to kill Gaozu. At dawn, the assassin searched everywhere but could not find him. The assassin was Guan Gao, a man from Zhao. Later, Gaozu pardoned Guan Gao’s crime and did not hold the incident against him.

Why? A pavilion’s name can undermine its original meaning. Naming something after an auspicious sign such as “Playful Sparrows” offers people no practical benefit, but because the name sounds nearly lucky, ordinary people like it. A broad spring in a settlement can shelter its people; if its name instead harms its original meaning, the wise and virtuous will dislike it. This shows that people judge good and bad by names.

Once, a poor man named his dog “Wealth” and his son “Joy.” During a sacrifice, the dog ran into the house, and he shouted, “Wealth, get out!” The person officiating the sacrifice thought this sounded inauspicious. Later, misfortune did indeed befall the family, and the son died. The father wept and cried, “Joy,” but calling him that could not make him happy.

A man in a village named his eldest son “Thief” and his second son “Beat.” The elder son went out carrying some clothes to weed the fields. His mother called after him, “Thief!” The officials seized him and tied him up. His mother quickly shouted, “Beat, beat!” hoping the officials would understand that she was calling her younger son. But in her panic she could not pronounce the words clearly and just kept shouting, “Beat, beat!” The officials took this to mean she was telling them to beat the elder son, so they struck him and nearly beat the breath out of him. When a name is poorly chosen, people can suffer the harm it brings. It is indeed sensible to think carefully about whether a name is appropriate.

Recognizing People, Chapter Eighteen

When a dragon lies hidden, if it has not yet encountered clouds to aid it, it can only keep company with fish and turtles. When a fine steed remains concealed and unknown, if it has not yet been recognized by Bole, the judge of horses, it can only share a stall with inferior horses.

Here, “steed” means a fine horse, while “inferior foal” means a slow, poor-quality horse. Sun Yang was skilled at judging horses; he was also known as Bole.

When people of talent and virtue are overlooked, until they meet someone who recognizes them, they too will mingle with ordinary people. Without penetrating insight, it is difficult to distinguish them. Therefore, when wise people recognize talent…

Fan Li and Wen Zhong were both from the state of Yue. Wen Zhong served as a minister to the king of Yue. When Fan Li saw Wen Zhong passing his gate, he hid in a dog hole and barked at him. Wen Zhong said, “A dog is supposed to bark at people.” Fan Li realized that Wen Zhong regarded him as a human being. He turned his carriage around, went to Fan Li’s home, entered to pay his respects, and recommended him for the post of Left Chancellor to the king of Yue. When the king planned to attack Wu, he followed the strategies of Wen Zhong and Fan Li and ultimately destroyed the state of Wu.

Fan Li said to Wen Zhong, “King Goujian of Yue has a long neck and a pointed, birdlike mouth. He can share hardship with others, but cannot share ease. Now that our work is done, I fear he may harm me, so I intend to leave.” Wen Zhong replied, “A minister serving his ruler should be ready to give his life to make a name for himself. Even if the ruler harms me one day, I will have no regrets when I die. I cannot bear the reputation of having abandoned my ruler. I will not leave.” Fan Li then sailed across the Five Lakes, making his living by fishing. He called himself ‘the Fisherman’ and never again took office. The king of Yue missed Fan Li, so he had an image of him cast in gold and offered sacrifices to it in each of the four seasons. After serving the king for many years, Wen Zhong fell into trouble and was indeed killed by the king, just as Fan Li had foreseen.

Bao Long knelt on a stone and recited poetry; Confucius therefore stepped down from his carriage to greet him.

Bao Long was a worthy man who lived in Confucius’s time.

When Yao recognized Shun’s worth, not even the shadow of a mulberry tree had shifted.

Yao appointed Shun beside the banks of Lake Lei and once spoke with him beneath a mulberry tree. By the time their conversation ended, the tree’s shadow had not moved. From this, Yao concluded that Shun was a worthy man fit to become the Son of Heaven, and so he yielded the imperial throne to him.

King Wen recognized Lü Wang’s worth in less than a day.

When King Wen of Zhou went out hunting, he consulted the oracle before setting off. The divination showed that his quarry would not be a bear, but a worthy minister who would assist the ruler. The person he encountered was indeed Lü Wang. King Wen then returned with Lü Wang riding beside him in the same carriage.

Though eyebrows and eyelashes are small…

Long ago, there was a man named Chen Yong, who was skilled at detecting thieves. Often, he could identify a thief from the expression in the person’s eyes and brows alone. Zhao Zi said to him, “I have heard that people whose eyes are excessively bright and keen can see fish in springs, but are more likely to invite misfortune.” Before long, Chen Yong was indeed killed by thieves.

A person’s disposition shows itself in the color of the face, while subtle changes in the voice can move the heart. The worthy and the sages can observe these signs and understand a situation in advance, without waiting for events to reach their outcome. When Chen Ping left Chu and went over to the King of Han, Wei Wuzhi—the man who recommended Chen Ping to Emperor Gaozu of Han—recognized his strategic talent.

Chen Ping was from Huyou County in Yangwu Commandery. In his youth, his family was poor. He served in his village as shetou, the person in charge of local sacrificial rites, and was responsible for distributing the meat. He divided it with great fairness. The village elders praised him, saying, “The young man of the Chen family divides the meat so fairly.” Chen Ping replied, “If I were given the chance to serve as chancellor and govern the realm, I would govern it as fairly as I divide this meat.” Later, as Han and Chu fought for control of the realm, Chen Ping initially served as a general under Xiang Yu. Xiang Yu could not make use of worthy talent, so Chen Ping left the Chu army and went over to the King of Han. Wei Wuzhi, the Han chancellor, recommended him to Emperor Gaozu, who appointed him as a military supervisor. Chen Ping offered six ingenious strategies that helped Han defeat Chu and bring the realm under its rule. That is why the text says that he “left Chu and returned to Han.”

When Han Xin fled to the area around the Black River, Xiao He, the chancellor of the early Han, had already recognized his ability to command troops.

Han Xin was from Huaiyin. His family was poor, and he did not pursue a livelihood, but he liked to wear a long sword. Later, he fled to the area around the Black River and obtained the position of lian’ao, a low-ranking office during the Chu-Han conflict. Once, twelve prisoners were all sentenced to death. When Han Xin’s turn came, he looked up at Teng Gong, the executioner, and said, “You wish to bring peace to the realm, yet you are going to kill a strong man?” Hearing this, Teng Gong spared him and introduced him to Xiao He. Xiao He recommended Han Xin to Emperor Gaozu, who appointed him as grain provisions commandant, an official responsible for military supplies.

Han Xin considered the post too low and left Emperor Gaozu, fleeing in secret. When Xiao He learned of this, he went after him himself and pursued him for three days before bringing him back. Xiao He told Emperor Gaozu, “Han Xin is a talent renowned throughout the realm. If you appoint him, he will stay; if you do not, he will eventually leave.” Emperor Gaozu therefore appointed Han Xin as supreme general. Thereafter, Han Xin helped defeat Zhao and Wei, swept through the Three Qin, and brought the realm under Han rule.

Would we really have to wait until Gongshu Ban had finished carving the phoenix before recognizing his remarkable skill? To fail to see his wisdom before his work has taken shape, or to recognize his courage when he faces danger, is to have only the judgment of an ordinary person, not the insight of someone truly discerning.

When Gongshu Ban was carving the phoenix, its crest and claws were not yet finished, and its emerald feathers had not yet been fitted. Seeing only its body, people said it looked like a quail or a crow. Seeing only its head, they gave it an ugly name. They all thought it hideous and mocked his poor craftsmanship. But once the phoenix was complete, its emerald crest rose like a cloud, its scarlet claws flashed like lightning, its brocade-colored body shone brilliantly, and its splendid wings spread wide. With a gentle beat of its wings, it wheeled among the high towers and stayed aloft for three days without landing. Only then did people marvel at the work and praise Gongshu Ban’s exquisite skill.

In the time of Emperor Yao, floods surged across the land, seeming to pour down from the sky and spill over the mountains. The people suffered greatly. Yu was then an ordinary man, with no achievements or renown. Yet Yao had already recognized his ability and appointed him to control the floods. Yu cut through Longmen, split open Mount Jing, cleared the waterways around Mount Xiong’er, and opened a channel through the rivers of Mount Wushu. He worked through raging winds and driving rain: the wind combed across his body, and the rain washed over him like water poured over his head. His face was blackened by the dust and smoke of the wilderness; his hands and feet were thick with calluses. He was too busy even to pick up his hat when it fell, and when he passed his own door, he had no time to go inside. He led the rivers to flow into the sea and drained the floodwaters as far west as the land of shifting sands, sparing the people the calamity of becoming food for fish and turtles. Only then did people sing his praises and recognize his virtue.

Thus, the person who could recognize Gongshu Ban’s talent while his work was unfinished and still rough in appearance was a true connoisseur like Wang Er. Those who saw his skill only after the phoenix was complete had merely the judgment of ordinary people. Yao recognized Yu’s virtue before he had achieved anything; the people recognized it only after he had succeeded in controlling the floods. This shows how rare it is to find someone who truly knows how to recognize others. Hou Sheng was originally a low-ranking gatekeeper at Yimen, yet Lord Xinling, Wei Wuji, recognized his worth.

Hou Sheng was a man of the state of Wei, and his name was Ying. Yimen was the eastern gate of Daliang, and at the time Hou Sheng was in charge of guarding it. “Lowly servant” means a slave of humble status. Lord Xinling of Wei, Wuji, was devoted to showing respect to worthy men and wished to meet Hou Sheng. Worried that there might not be enough properly arranged seats when worthy men from across the realm came to visit, he prepared places in advance and invited the noble ministers of Wei to a banquet.

Before the banquet began, Lord Xinling personally drove to Hou Sheng’s home and invited him to ride along to the market. When they arrived, Hou Sheng asked the lord to stop the carriage. “There is a butcher at the market named Zhu Hai, a worthy and capable man. He lives in a butcher’s shop only because he has not been given a suitable office. I would like to speak with him. Please wait here for a while.” Hou Sheng then got down and talked with Zhu Hai. A long time passed, but he still did not return. People at the market criticized Hou Sheng for his lack of manners, leaving the lord’s carriage waiting there.

Hou Sheng watched discreetly and saw that Lord Xinling never showed any displeasure. He realized that the lord was truly virtuous. So Hou Sheng returned to the carriage, and they went back to the lord’s residence together. The guests were all astonished, and only then understood that Hou Sheng was a worthy man.

Yu Zi, that is, Yu Rang, had originally served as a retainer to the Fan and Zhonghang families. After their power declined, he gained the favor of Zhi Bo and entered his service. Later, when Zhao Xiangzi killed Zhi Bo, Yu Rang resolved to avenge him by assassinating Zhao Xiangzi. He disguised himself as a lowly servant and hid in the latrine. When Zhao Xiangzi was about to enter, he suddenly grew suspicious and ordered a search. They found Yu Rang concealed inside, with a sword beside him. Zhao Xiangzi asked why he was there. Yu Rang said, “I was Zhi Bo’s minister. I have come here to avenge him.” Zhao Xiangzi called him a righteous man of integrity, then let him go.

Later, Yu Rang blackened his skin with lacquer, swallowed charcoal to alter his voice, and disfigured himself to change his appearance, still intent on assassinating Zhao Xiangzi. His wife did not recognize him, but a friend did. The friend said to him, “Since you want to kill Zhao Xiangzi, why not first enter his service, and then…”