《刘子》Vol. 3

Cao Cao was based in Wei and later became Emperor Wu of Wei, the founder of the Cao Wei regime. He once contended with Yuan Shao for control of the realm. Zhang Xiu had originally served as a general under Yuan Shao. During a battle with Cao Cao, he killed Cao Cao’s beloved son. Later, after Yuan Shao was defeated and his forces scattered, Zhang Xiu went to join Cao Cao.

Cao Cao’s general Xu Chu said to Zhang Xiu, “You should go over to the state of Wu.” Zhang Xiu replied, “I cannot.” Xu Chu asked, “Why not? You killed Cao Cao’s beloved son. How can you still want to join him?” Zhang Xiu said, “Cao Cao has great ambitions and the ability to contend for the realm. My killing his son was a private grievance; perhaps one day he will even conquer Wu. How could a great man suffer humiliation a second time?” So Zhang Xiu joined Cao Cao.

After accepting Zhang Xiu, Cao Cao pointed to his face and said, “You are the very person who has made it possible for me to establish my credibility before all under Heaven.” Cao Cao appointed Zhang Xiu as a general and no longer pursued his earlier offense. The original explanation says that “xie” means “to let leak”; here it means to stop pursuing and to set aside the earlier blame.

Han Xin was from Huaiyin. He did no work to earn a living and did not run a food business. He often walked through the markets of Huaiyin with a long sword at his side. A young man humiliated him, saying, “You carry a sword. Can you kill someone? If you can, kill me. If you can’t, crawl under my legs.” Han Xin looked at the young man for a long time. Thinking that killing him would bring no benefit, he bent down and crawled beneath his legs.

Later, Emperor Gaozu of Han appointed Han Xin as a great general. Han Xin summoned the young man from the market and said to him, “You insulted me in the past. Would you dare insult me now?” The young man begged for mercy. Han Xin pardoned him and gave him a minor official post so he could serve.

“An Guo pardons Tian Jia for his disrespect” is the title of the next section. It means that An Guo forgave Tian Jia for treating him with contempt.

Han Anguo once served as grand historian of the state of Liang. After breaking the law, he was imprisoned. The jailer Tian Jia insulted him. Han Anguo said, “Can cold ashes ever burn again?” Tian Jia replied, “If cold ashes can catch fire again, I’ll piss on them.”

Later, Han Anguo was released and appointed governor of Liangzhou. When Tian Jia heard the news, he was so frightened that he fled. Han Anguo said, “If he runs away, I’ll exterminate his family. If he stays, I’ll pardon him.” Tian Jia then came to see Han Anguo. Han Anguo smiled and said to him, “The cold ashes are burning you now. Why don’t you piss on them?” Ashamed of his earlier offense, Tian Jia was utterly terrified. In the end, Han Anguo even appointed him to a post under the Minister of Justice. The Minister of Justice was an official in charge of legal and criminal matters; the “Sima” mentioned here refers to an office of this kind.

These stories show that when one encounters an enlightened, magnanimous ruler or a generous, broad-minded superior, even deep resentment does not necessarily lead to harsh retaliation.

“Lu wine was weak, and Handan was besieged” refers to the following story. During the Warring States period, Chu was the dominant power, and the rulers of the various states came to pay court. Zhao also came and presented an ox and wine. The wine brought by the King of Zhao was excellent, and officials of the King of Chu demanded some from him. The King of Zhao refused, saying, “The King of Chu has not received it yet, so I cannot give it to you.” After the King of Zhao had presented his wine, the officials secretly replaced the weak wine offered by the ruler of Lu with the King of Zhao’s fine wine and presented it to the King of Chu, falsely claiming it was the weak wine from Zhao. After drinking it, the King of Chu flew into a rage. He believed that the King of Zhao had slighted him once by arriving late, and had slighted him again by offering such insipid wine. Once the rulers’ meeting had ended, the King of Chu sent troops to surround Handan, the capital of Zhao.

“Unequal portions of mutton soup led to the defeat of the Song army” refers to a case in which the uneven distribution of mutton soup caused the Song army to lose a battle.

The state of Song sent Hua Yuan to lead an army against Zheng, intending to fight the next day. Hua Yuan killed a sheep and made soup to reward the soldiers, but gave none to the charioteer, Yang Zhen. When Song and Zheng fought the next day, Yang Zhen said to Hua Yuan, “Yesterday, you decided who got the soup. Today, I decide how the battle goes.” He then drove the chariot straight into the Zheng army. Song was routed, and Hua Yuan was captured by Zheng. The people of Song paid gold, silver, and precious treasures to ransom him. Hua Yuan told Yang Zhen, “That day, the chariot charged into the Zheng army because the horses were startled and bolted, and you failed to stop them.” He said this because he feared the Song army would kill Yang Zhen.

Qiu Sun lost his life over a cockfight.

Hou Zhaobo and Ji Pingzi, officials of Lu during the Spring and Autumn period, held a cockfight. Ji Pingzi fitted metal spurs to his rooster, while Hou Zhaobo sprinkled mustard powder on his rooster’s wings, so that it flew into Ji Pingzi’s rooster’s eyes and made it retreat. Later, Ji Pingzi learned what had happened and demanded of Hou Zhaobo, “Why did you sprinkle mustard powder on your rooster’s wings so it would fly into my rooster’s eyes?” Hou Zhaobo retorted, “Why did you fit metal spurs to your rooster?” The two grew resentful of one another and even raised troops and fought for several days. In the end, Ji Pingzi killed Hou Zhaobo.

The ruler of Qi brought calamity upon his state because his concubines laughed.

Jin sent an official, You Ke, as an envoy to Qi. You Ke had a limp, and the ruler of Qi wanted to mock him. He therefore set up a screen in the corridor and hid his concubines behind it during the day. As You Ke limped up into the hall, the concubines behind the screen all burst out laughing. Humiliated and furious, You Ke returned to Jin and led troops against Qi, ultimately bringing ruin upon the state.

These are all examples of people losing their lives or states being destroyed over trivial matters.

People often overlook the roots of disaster because they dismiss small resentments and grievances. Over trivial matters such as eating and drinking, playing and joking, people have brought down states and ruined themselves, becoming a laughingstock to all under heaven. This is all due to a failure to act with care. In the world, people often treat small and minor misfortunes as insignificant, only to let them grow into great calamities. People bring disaster upon themselves, just as they create their own good fortune. Disaster and good fortune often arise from the same place, and harm and benefit frequently accompany one another. Only those of exceptional insight can tell them apart. Thus, thought is the gateway to disaster and good fortune, while action and stillness are the turning point between benefit and harm. One must be careful about these things.

Caution Against Excess: Chapter Thirty-Four

The seasons follow a set order: when one seasonal period reaches its end, the next begins. The Five Phases—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—move in the same way: once their work is complete, they turn toward decline. When Yang reaches its height, Yin begins to descend; when Yin reaches its height, Yang begins to rise. After noon, the sun starts to sink westward; once the moon is full, it gradually wanes. This is the constant pattern by which Heaven and Earth operate.

After noon, the sun sinks westward; once the moon is full, it gradually wanes. A person who relies on strength and seeks to prevail through force will eventually bring about their own downfall. A vessel filled to the brim will also overturn. This chapter is therefore called “Caution Against Excess”: its purpose is to urge people to guard against complacency.

Power accumulated to a certain point invites loss; wealth amassed in excess will eventually scatter. The height of one’s years gives way to decline, and the utmost joy turns to sorrow. These are familiar truths. In ancient times, Confucius saw a sacrificial vessel and his expression changed.

In the temple of the Duke of Zhou there was a kind of sacrificial vessel that habitually tilted and could not stand upright. It was called the “vessel of reverence.” When filled with too much water, it tipped over; with too little, it leaned to one side. Only when the water was at the right level did it stand upright. When Confucius saw this vessel in the temple of the Duke of Zhou, he asked the person in charge of the ritual vessels, “What is this vessel?” The attendant replied, “It is the vessel of reverence.” Confucius said, “I have heard that when this vessel is too full, it tips over; when it is not full enough, it leans; only when it is filled to the right measure does it stand upright.” Confucius then sighed, his expression changing, and said, “The ancients made this vessel to warn later generations: people must be careful not to go to the point of collapse or complacency, but to keep everything within its proper measure.”

Observing the changes in how things are gained and lost inspires reflection. To recognize what things share beneath their outward appearance is like seeing autumn frost and knowing that bitter cold is coming, and that ice and snow will soon form. If you know only how to advance and not how to yield, you will risk overflowing and collapse. Only by thinking of danger even in a place of safety can you truly follow the way of living with the steadiness of Mount Tai.

The Book of Changes says that thunder in the heavens forms the Great Strength hexagram, while a mountain hidden beneath the earth forms the Humility hexagram. The humble reduce what is excessive and make up what is lacking. Those who are powerful should follow ritual and propriety, and do nothing contrary to them. A person who observes propriety while powerful, gains in humility while occupying a low position, lowers themselves to draw near to those below, and restrains their strength to live in harmony with the weak will not lose their dignity through humility. The proud and complacent, by contrast, are bound to meet ruin.

The sages know that fullness cannot be relied upon for long, so they sustain themselves through virtue and remain humble. The more perceptive and discerning they are, the more they lower their aspirations. The wealthier and more distinguished they become, and the higher their standing, the more modest they grow. Even when their achievements surpass all others, they remain inwardly vigilant. They do not look down on others because their virtue is deep, nor disdain the people because of their high rank.

Thus, after achieving success, King Zhuang of Chu remained wary; after his victory, Duke Wen of Jin still looked troubled. This was not because they disliked glory or rejected victory, but because the greater their achievements, the more cautious they became. Even in times of security, they kept danger in mind.

When Yu of Xia once sat down to eat, he rose seven times to receive visitors. When the Duke of Zhou was washing his hair, he went out three times to greet guests, holding his wet hair in his hand. They did not have time to finish eating or wait for their hair to dry. This was not because they endured hunger or enjoyed hardship, but because they were eager to welcome worthy people. It showed the virtue of humility. The Book of Changes says, “When those of high rank honor those of low rank, they can win the hearts of the people.”

Therefore, a noble person may hold a high position yet place themselves below others; be wealthy yet live frugally; be distinguished yet defer to others; be intelligent yet seem unassuming; be brave yet cautious; be eloquent yet speak little; possess broad learning yet avoid showing it off; and understand matters clearly yet remain open to different views. This is called reducing what one has without ever exhausting it.

Illuminating Humility, Chapter Thirty-Five: The thirty-fifth chapter, which explains the way of humility.

The Dao of Heaven occupies the lower position, yet it can shine on all things. Rivers, lakes, and seas are content to lie low, and so they can gather the waters of a hundred streams and become sovereign over them. Thus, a mountain within the earth symbolizes humility. When kings and lords call themselves “orphan” or “widow,” they likewise lower their own standing through self-effacement.

The humble become more honored, and their standing grows higher. Those who know how to lower themselves become more revered. A high position must have a low place as its foundation, and honor must have lowliness as its root. Only by remembering, while occupying an honored position, that honor is not eternal can one use that position to treat the people with humility. Only by refusing to covet high status while in a high position can one truly rise without looking down on those below.

The transformations between Heaven and Earth also express humility: when strength and flourishing reach their peak, they turn back; when things rise to the summit, they begin to descend; and after the moon becomes full, it wanes. Though the Dao is abundant, it can remain empty and yielding. For this reason, the sage can be inwardly full and outwardly humble. The Book of Changes says that humility makes the honored shine more brightly. The Laozi says that because one does not boast of one’s achievements, one has achievements.

Humility means lowering oneself: reaching from high to low, and bringing the identity of a sage close to ordinary people. One does not boast because one truly has achievements; one is not proud because one truly has De. To keep one’s achievements and De off one’s lips is a sign of a yielding heart, open and spacious as a valley. Delighting in fullness, assuming oneself wise, boasting of achievements, and proclaiming one’s own merits are common in the world, but the sage abhors them.

If one insists on boasting of achievements, then even after receiving a reward, one will say that one gave too much and still feel it was not enough. If one keeps proclaiming one’s good deeds, then even after receiving many rewards, one will complain that they were too small. This breeds discontent and resentment, displays impatience and competitiveness, opens the way to self-congratulation and pride, and invites calamity.

The exemplary person is different. Even amid honor, they hold to yielding humility as their foundation. They achieve things without pride and perform good deeds without boasting. By forgetting their achievements, they preserve them for a long time; by giving no thought to their good deeds, they keep them intact. When one does not keep one’s own goodness in mind, one can treat others with goodwill. When one is always mindful of one’s own goodness, one will want to use it to surpass others.

Thus, to keep achievements and good deeds in mind is not true humility. To speak falsely of being humble—is that not affectation? If one’s good deeds surpass those of others, yet one does not keep achievements and good deeds in mind, that is not boasting. Even mentioning one’s good deeds aloud does not necessarily mean one is bragging. If one cannot let go of achievements and good deeds, then even without speaking of them, one cannot avoid some pride. If one has already let them go, then even speaking of them openly does not compromise one’s integrity.

Thus, Yu the Great once spoke openly of and praised his achievements. When Gouxian, an ancient figure referred to by that name in the source, presented his plans, he humbly called them “my kindness.” Was this because he boasted of his achievements and kept his kindness in mind? Speaking of good deeds does not necessarily mean boasting; but those who truly boast of their good deeds are always eager to proclaim their abilities. Speaking of kindness does not necessarily mean pride; but those who truly boast of their kindness always keep in mind the favors they have bestowed.

The sage knows that people often esteem ability and enjoy boasting. Therefore, in setting forth teachings and establishing institutions, the sage often adopts a yielding approach, to remove the customs of arrogance, self-praise, and striving to outdo others, and to leave a standard for later generations.

The nature of fire does not weaken its heat even in bitter cold, when ice forms and the earth cracks. Nor does its heat grow stronger in unbearable heat, when metal melts and stone is scorched. Why is this? Because fire has an innate nature that cold cannot change.

Thus cinnabar, a red mineral, can be ground down without losing its color; orchids can be trampled without losing their fragrance; jade can be shattered without losing its whiteness; and gold can be melted without losing its hardness. Each retains its inborn nature, which cannot be forcibly changed.

A scholar with a loyal and righteous nature, steadfast integrity, and an unshakable character is like these things. Even if living in defiance of what is right brings him no benefit, he does not regard dying in accordance with what is right as a loss. Such a person does not change his choices to pursue gain or avoid harm. He does not cling to life or resent death. Threats cannot shake his integrity, and benefits cannot tempt him to change his mind.

Long ago, when Zixian was taken hostage, someone pressed a naked blade against him, yet his resolve did not waver.

Bai Gong Sheng of Chu launched a rebellion, killed Zixi, and took Zixian hostage. He told him, “Stand with me and you will live. Refuse, and I will kill you.” He then thrust a knife at Zixian, but Zixian still would not submit. He did not change his position to escape danger.

When Yan Ying was forced to swear an oath with another man, someone hooked his neck with a curved halberd, yet his resolve did not change.

After Cui Zhu killed the ruler of Qi, he sent a man to hook Yan Ying’s neck with an iron hook, hoping to force him to join the oath and pledge cooperation. Yan Ying steadfastly refused to join Cui Zhu’s rebellion.

This shows that neither enticement with benefits nor threats could make them change their minds. A person who acts with loyalty and righteousness and keeps to the rules and standards of integrity may seem no different from others in ordinary circumstances. But when disaster strikes and danger looms, his resolve proves firm and unyielding, setting him apart. This is like the jade of Mount Zhong.

Mount Zhong is in Kuaiji.

A pine tree on a cold mountain ridge appears no different from a piece of ruanmin—a stone that resembles jade—or from catalpa and willow trees. Only when it meets hardship and passes through danger, yet remains resolute and strong in spirit, do people recognize that it is exceptional. It is like the jade of Mount Zhong, which lies in Kuaiji.

At first glance, a pine on a cold ridge seems no different from ruanmin, catalpa, or willow. Ruanmin looks like jade, but melts and is destroyed when put in a fire. Catalpa is a kind of Chinese toon, and willow refers to the willow tree. Burn jade in a furnace for three days, and its color still does not change; immerse a pine in deep water, and even after a year its branches and leaves do not wither. Only then do people realize that they are unlike ordinary stones and trees.

Thus courage becomes evident only when someone bares their body and fights a fierce tiger; agility appears only when someone crosses a steep and perilous place; strength can be seen only when someone lifts a weight of ten thousand jun; and resolve and bravery show themselves only when someone is in dire straits and faces calamity. Without Ganjiang, the legendary keen-edged sword, how would we know that a blade is sharp? Without drawing the Wuhou, the legendary fine bow used by the Yellow Emperor, how would we know that its pull is powerful?

The Wuhou was a bow made from horned mulberry wood. According to legend, a mulberry tree stood before the Yellow Emperor’s palace, its branches long enough for crows to perch on them. When a crow took flight, the branch sprang back and sent the bird off crying in distress; this is said to be how the bow got its name, “Wuhou.” The Yellow Emperor judged the wood suitable for making bows and had it fashioned into one. The bow proved exceptionally fine, and so it was called the Wuhou bow. Another account says that the Yellow Emperor found a bow left behind by an immortal on Mount Dinghu. When his ministers saw it, they all cried out in grief, giving rise to the name. A further explanation holds that a kind of crow on Mount Nanling called out each day from a toona tree, which is why the bow was called Wuhou.

The essential qualities of strength and sharpness readily reveal themselves; a person’s aspirations and integrity, however, are often hard to discern. If so, how could we fail to wait until events unfold before recognizing them?

Woodlands did not originally grow on hillsides for the sake of birds. But once the trees grow dense, birds naturally come to roost there. Deep pools were not dug in rivers and lakes for the sake of fish. But once the water is deep, fish naturally swim there. People do not live in the world in order to amass wealth for others. But once wealth accumulates, people naturally gather around its owner. None of this is a deliberate attempt to attract others; it follows from the circumstances.

Someone who keeps a precious jade hidden in their arms may have no wish to benefit others, yet people vie to draw near because they have the means to help. A scholar dressed in coarse cloth may, by temperament, care little for money, yet everyone keeps their distance because he has no means to help.

Today, even a wealthy person who is frugal and miserly still receives affection and respect; a poor person, even if generous and kind, cannot escape being shunned and looked down upon. This does not mean their conduct is at fault; it means human sentiments have changed. A carriage drawn by four horses cannot travel straight up a mountain with its reins held taut; nor can someone sailing out to sea sit still in comfort. Why? Mountain paths wind, and the sea surges: the traveler wants to go straight, but the winding path holds him back; the passenger wants to sit in peace, but the waves toss the boat.

A generous person may wish to give, yet poverty often stands in the way. It is easy for the rich to distribute relief, and no fault for the poor to conserve what they have. The Way of Heaven reduces what is abundant, while human feelings often take pity on those who lack. At the foot of Kunlun, people trade jade for crows; by Lake Pengli, they feed fish to dogs. The local people do not treasure these things—not because they are naturally indifferent to valuables, but because such things are plentiful there.

In ancient times, people carried jars to ask for water and brought firewood to ask for fire. Rushes could be woven into mats. Note: The text that follows seems to list further examples of abundant local produce that was readily available.

People fail to understand this not because they are naturally fond of giving, but because they have something to spare. Human beings cannot go without food like gourds, and the body is not made of wood or stone that it can go unclothed. If there is not enough food to fill one’s own stomach, how can one stop eating and give the food to someone else? If one’s clothes cannot yet cover one’s body, how can one go bare and give them away? This is not natural stinginess; there simply is not enough.

When famine strikes in spring, people do not relieve their relatives and friends. When the autumn harvest is abundant, however, they can host feasts for their neighbors. Failing to help relatives and friends is something people despise; extending kindness to one’s neighbors is a good deed. Though good and bad actions arise from human nature, they are also affected by famine and plenty. From this we can see that kindness is readily expressed when life is comfortable and abundant, while benevolence and generosity are hard to put into practice amid poverty and deprivation.

Someone who judges horses by wanting them to be thin while expecting them to travel a thousand li in a day is judging poorly. Likewise, someone who judges a person to have no generous heart simply because that person is poor is judging poorly. The world is not short of people who think little of money; their virtue often goes unseen because poverty has obscured their good intentions.

If a person’s virtue has not yet become evident, yet they claim to have ability, it is like someone whose feet cannot walk selling medicine and hoping others will believe in it. That is truly difficult.

Harmony of Nature, Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ou Ye, an ancient master swordsmith, forged swords.

The man who forged swords for the King of Yue was surnamed Zhao and named Ganjiang. He excelled at forging swords in the style of Ou Ye.

A sword that is too hard will break easily; one that is too soft will bend easily. To keep a sword from breaking, tin must be added; to keep it from bending, more gold must be added. Why? Gold is hard in nature, while tin is soft. A proper balance of hardness and softness is the right condition.

When a skilled craftsperson mixes lacquer, lacquer that is too thin will not dry easily, while lacquer that dries too quickly will not hold firmly. Only when the drying time is adjusted just right is the lacquer properly prepared. Human temperament is much the same: excessive firmness can make a person seem harsh and fierce, while excessive gentleness can make them weak and timid. Acting slowly can mean missing the moment; acting rashly can lead to failure because one’s thoughts are hurried.

Therefore, when forging a sword, the metal must be made neither so brittle that it breaks nor so soft that it bends. When making an implement, the lacquer must dry at the right time and adhere firmly. In regulating one’s temperament, one should be firm without being fierce, gentle without being weak, steady without missing the moment, and quick without being hasty. In this way, one can make sound implements and cultivate a temperament that is calm and genuine.

In the past, the King of Yan of Xu, ruler of the state of Xu, had a gentle temperament and enjoyed practicing benevolence and righteousness and cultivating virtue through culture. But he did not devote himself to making adequate defenses, and later his state was conquered by a neighboring country. As he lay dying, he said, “I knew only how to promote cultural virtue; I did not know that people could deceive.”

Shang Gong of the state of Qi was timid by nature and eventually lost his life; this was the harm of excessive softness. Yang Chufu, a minister of the state of Jin, was too unyielding and thus brought about his own death. Ziyang, ruler of the state of Zheng, was harsh and fierce, and was eventually killed by his subordinates. These were all failings caused by excessive firmness. Zixi, chief minister of the state of Chu, was too indulgent toward others, which led to his downfall; he was later killed by the king of Chu.

Neighbor Zhuangzi brought calamity upon himself through his impatience. This was the harm caused by an overly hasty temperament. Ximen Bao, a local official during the Warring States period, was impatient by nature, so he wore soft, tanned leather to remind himself to slow down and temper his disposition. Dong An Yu, governor of Jinyang, was sluggish by nature, so he tied on a sturdy silk cord to remind himself to rouse his energy and act more swiftly.

Both understood how to use the strengths of one thing to make up for the shortcomings in their own character. Only when Yin and Yang are in harmony can Heaven and Earth be stable; only when firmness and gentleness complement each other can human affairs be well ordered. When Yin and Yang fall out of balance, rain and drought lose their proper measure. When firmness and gentleness are out of balance, domineering force and timidity disrupt government. Irregular rain and drought bring poor harvests, while an imbalance of strength and weakness in government can lead to ruin.

Thus, the wise are generous yet cautious, stern yet still gentle, yielding yet decisive, and courageous yet compassionate. Strength can make up for weakness, and weakness can restrain strength. Firmness and gentleness harmonize with each other; slowness and urgency support each other. By cultivating one’s temperament in this way, no one, so far as we have heard, has brought regret or calamity upon themselves.

Different Preferences, Chapter Thirty-Nine

Tier upon tier of halls, secluded chambers, pearl curtains, and splendid mansions are the dwellings people admire, but crows that fly inside them feel anxious and afraid. Lofty, sheer cliffs and tangled growths of fungi are suitable places for the nuandi—a kind of beast—to live, but people who climb there are afraid.

The Five Talks and Six Classics, along with Xianchi and Xiaoshao, legendary music of antiquity, are things people enjoy hearing, but wild beasts are startled by them. Rushing waterfalls, deep green pools, and surging waves are places where fish and dragons live at ease, but people who enter them are afraid.

Flying bats, creatures resembling mice, enjoy eating firecrackers; the walking Mo, beasts that relish iron, regard iron as a delicacy; and the hongji, a chicken-like bird that can eat snakes, likes to eat snakes. People, meanwhile, like to eat the flesh of grass-fed livestock.

Animals that eat grass are called “grazers”; those that eat grain are called “feed animals.”

Birds and beasts have natures different from humans, distinct physical forms, separate habitats, and different preferences. There is nothing surprising about this. Humans and animals alike receive the Qi of Yin and Yang from Heaven and Earth, and both possess the Five Constant Virtues—the Confucian virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness. Though they differ in wisdom and folly, and in goodness and wickedness, they share basic perceptions: they see the sun and moon, hear thunder, feel heat near a fire, and know cold when they tread on ice.

Sounds, colors, scents, and flavors each have their own qualities, and beauty and ugliness, good and bad, are clearly apparent. Black cannot be called white, feathers cannot be called horns, bitter cannot be called sweet, and seeing cannot be called smelling a fragrance. Yet some people’s preferences depart sharply from what is usual, even turning good and bad upside down. Such cases cannot be judged by ordinary reasoning or anticipated through guesswork; to reverse beauty and ugliness is truly astonishing.

A well-proportioned face, skin like jade, and a graceful smile are admired by everyone. Yet Xuanyuan preferred Mumo’s ugly face—“kui” means an ugly appearance—and would not trade it for Luoying’s beauty. Marquis Chen admired Dunxia’s unattractive looks and would not exchange them for Yangwen’s graceful, delicate beauty.

Roasted lamb, fried goose, and cooked turtle and bear paw are all delicacies praised by everyone. A commentator explains: “qing” means turtle, and “ru” refers to bear paw. Once roasted and preserved in honey, they can be eaten. People praise these foods because they taste delicious.

King Wen of Zhou preferred the taste of jupu and would not trade it for bear liver. “Yangchun,” “Baixue,” “Aochu,” and “Cailing” are names of musical pieces that everyone enjoys hearing. Yet Emperor Shun of Han preferred the call of the mountain crow, considering it superior to string and bamboo instruments; Marquis Wen of Wei enjoyed the sound of hammering and chiseling and thought little of the harmony of bells, chimes, and other metal and stone instruments.

Yujin Xuanchuang is a quiet, subtle incense; spring orchids and autumn hui are fragrant herbs whose scent pleases everyone. Yet the sea people preferred zhijian and did not enjoy fragrant scents.

Echoes sound different. Marquis Wen of Wei enjoyed the sounds of striking wooden and stone objects, and did not value the harmonious music made by metal and stone instruments played together. Tulips and xuanchuang are both quiet, fragrant herbs; spring orchids and autumn hui are also plants that everyone finds fragrant. Yet the people who live by the sea enjoy only the stench of the dead and have no love for fragrance.

The “people by the sea” are those who live along the coast and enjoy the smell of corpses. One day, a man came to the shore alone. He had been born with the stench of the dead on his body. When the people by the sea smelled it, they chased after him in a frenzy, and eventually said that merely smelling him was not enough.

All these people are biased by nature. If they cling only to their own preferences, even when those preferences run counter to everyone else’s, they will call white black and bitter sweet, change horns into feathers, and even say that ornaments meant to be perfumed smell foul. In this way, beauty and ugliness have no fixed form, and love and hatred have no accepted standard.

The Guards and Weapons, Chapter Forty

In ancient times, customs were simple and the people had no desires in their hearts. Later, as customs declined and people’s minds grew restless, strife arose, and war followed. Shennong bent wood to make a bow and carved wood to make arrows, using the power of bows and arrows to awe the world. Later, Chiyou became overbearing and cruel, delighting in warfare. He smelted metal to make blades and cut leather to make armor, and so weapons and warfare gradually arose. The Yellow Emperor once fought at Zhuolu, and Zhuanxu also fought Gonggong at Mount Buzhou.

Mount Buzhou is a mountain in the region of the Western Sea. Gonggong and Zhuanxu fought there. After losing, Gonggong struck Mount Buzhou with his head. The mountain toppled, the pillars supporting the sky collapsed, and the cords binding Heaven and Earth broke. As a result, the sky tilted toward the northwest, and the sun, moon, and stars moved westward. The supports in the southeast of the earth gave way, so the rivers all flowed east. For this reason, people say that the sky’s northwestern corner tilted and the earth’s southeastern edge broke away.

Yao fought at Dān River, Shun suppressed Youmiao, the Xia dynasty attacked the Youhu, the Shang attacked Ge Bo, and the Zhou attacked the Marquis of Chong. Weapons and warfare are dangerous things: they deplete a state’s resources and harm its people. Even the Five Emperors and Three Kings could not entirely avoid war. They fought to stop violence and punish disorder, not because they wished to squander resources or harm the people. Yet when armies gather, resources are depleted, and when blades clash, people are harmed. These are inevitable consequences of war. Therefore, the aim of using the military should be to frustrate the enemy’s plans; fighting with weapons is of secondary importance. Winning every battle is not the highest achievement in the art of war. Those skilled in warfare can prevail without fighting, and this is the most excellent approach.

A king uses military force to win people over through upright principles; a hegemon uses it to prevail through stratagems and shifting tactics. A general’s decisions affect the security of the state and the lives of its people, so they must be treated with utmost care. Thus, the general is solemnly admonished in the ancestral temple and given the axe and battle-axe that symbolize military authority. Once commissioned, the general has mourning garments prepared and a gate of ill omen opened, signifying that life and death have been set aside. When commanding the army, the general must forget family; when the drums sound the advance, forget personal safety. Only then can the general fear neither Heaven above nor Earth below, face no enemy with dread, and have no concern behind. Preserving the state must come first, and strategic planning must take precedence.

A general must therefore understand the timing of Heaven, recognize the lay of the land, and be versed in human strategy. Understanding Heaven’s timing means observing the movements of the Seven Luminaries—the sun, moon, and five planets—comprehending the changes of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), listening to the winds from the eight directions, and observing the signs in clouds of the five colors. Recognizing the lay of the land means understanding the configurations of the Seven Lodgings, which correspond to celestial phenomena and directions, and judging the conditions of the Nine Terrains, the different types of battlefield.

When fighting in mountainous terrain, do not turn your back on high ground. In places with water and vegetation, do not enter deep water. On level ground, do not enter empty, treacherous places.

A person skilled at managing affairs possesses five virtues and masters two key means. The five virtues are wisdom, trustworthiness, benevolence, courage, and authority; the two means are rewards and punishments. Wisdom enables a person to plan well; trustworthiness makes it possible to discipline and manage a group; benevolence enables care for others; courage makes it possible to resist enemies; and authority enables one to command respect and obedience. Rewards encourage achievements, while punishments correct mistakes.

Wisdom, therefore, is the root of adapting to changing circumstances and the source of ingenious stratagems. The art of war depends on change and strategy to secure victory. Sun Bin’s ambush at Maling, where ten thousand crossbows loosed their bolts at once, is an example of such a stratagem.

The state of Wei appointed Pang Juan as a general to attack Zhao, and Zhao appealed to Qi for aid. Qi sent Sun Bin to relieve Zhao. When Sun Bin arrived and engaged Pang Juan, the Qi army was smaller and could not match its enemy. Sun Bin therefore withdrew deliberately, pretending to be afraid. Pang Juan said, “I knew the people of Qi were cowardly; they have retreated before even fighting.” He then led his army in pursuit. Sun Bin set an ambush at a narrow, strategic point at Maling, placing ten thousand crossbows there—weapons that use a bow’s frame to launch bolts—and drawing their strings taut. When Pang Juan reached the site, the bolts flew all at once. The Wei army was routed, and Pang Juan was killed.

The tactic of setting a herd of oxen running together was used by Tian Dan.

Qi had a general skilled in defending cities. When Yan attacked Qi, its army captured all seventy of Qi’s cities. Tian Dan was besieged by Yan forces inside Jimo, but he held out and refused to surrender. A Yan general said to him, “Surrender at once, or I will breach the city and kill everyone inside.” Tian Dan replied, “Tomorrow, I will come and surrender.” The Yan general then relaxed his guard, allowing Tian Dan to hold out for one more night.

Inside the city, Tian Dan dug tunnels and concealed a thousand water buffalo there. He tied swords, spears, and other weapons to their horns, painted dragon patterns on their bodies, and draped them in brightly colored cloth. At night, he sent the buffalo out through the tunnels, with oil-soaked torches tied to their tails. When the agreed hour for battle arrived, Tian Dan ordered the tails set alight and drove the buffalo charging through the tunnels. With their tails burning, the buffalo stampeded into the Yan army, which at once broke apart and fled in every direction, with no way to retreat. Tian Dan then sent his troops in pursuit, attacking from behind and closing in on the fleeing soldiers. The Yan army was decisively defeated.

Blocking the water with sacks of earth was Han Xin’s expedient stratagem.

The Han general Han Xin led his troops to attack Zhao, while Chu forces came to Zhao’s aid. Han Xin ordered each soldier to carry two sacks of earth and use them to block the flow of water along the riverbank. The Han army then crossed the water and engaged the Chu forces, pretending to be defeated and retreating. The Chu army pursued. When it had crossed halfway, Han Xin sent men to open the sacks on the riverbank, allowing the water to flow again. The Chu soldiers could not return across the river and were caught in a pincer attack by Han Xin’s forces. They suffered a crushing defeat.

Dragging firewood to raise clouds of dust was Le Zhi’s ruse.

Le Zhi was a general of Jin with only a small force. He had his soldiers pretend to drag firewood, raising a great cloud of dust. From a distance, people saw the dust billowing and assumed that the Jin army was enormous.

Charging in chariots like wild boars was Yin Zi’s defensive stratagem.

The general loaded pigs onto chariots and drove them toward the enemy camp.

Siege ladders and rising clouds of smoke and dust were Lu Sheng’s ingenious stratagem.

When Lu attacked a city of Song, it had Lu Ban make siege ladders. In ancient times, siege ladders were used to climb city walls.

With an unexpected stratagem, a small force can overcome a larger one, and the weak can defeat the strong. How much more, then, can a larger force overcome a smaller one? This makes Lu Sheng’s ingenuity all the more evident.

With unexpected stratagems, a few can frustrate the many, and the weak can defeat the strong. How much more, then, can the many overcome the few, and the enlightened attack the uninformed?

The principles of warfare are like water. Water flows away from high ground and toward low ground. In warfare, avoid the enemy’s strong points and strike where they are weak; avoid a powerful enemy and attack where they are vulnerable; avoid an orderly army and strike when it is in disarray; avoid an enemy at the height of its vigor and attack when it is weary and depleted. Water changes course according to the terrain, and an army achieves victory by adapting to the enemy. Warfare has no fixed formation, just as water has no fixed shape.

Study the enemy and employ ingenious stratagems; adapt to circumstances and respond to change. Only by varying conventional methods with flexibility can you win through the unexpected; only by leaving no trace can you attain the highest subtlety. If wind had a shape, it could be held back by a curtain. But cold and heat have no shape, and no bolt or lock can keep them out.

Those skilled in attack make the enemy unable to tell where to defend. They strike like thunder and lightning, appearing and disappearing without a fixed location. Those skilled in defense make the enemy unable to tell where to attack: it is like searching for the boundary of a circle, yet never finding its end. If you understand your own stratagems, you need not fear the enemy’s strength; if you understand your own strength, you need not fear the enemy’s stratagems. These principles, then, must be understood.

A general should take strategy as the foundation and benevolence as the root: use strategy to overcome the enemy, and benevolence to win people over. Thus, one who can use strategy to subdue the enemy is a general; one who relies on strength to defeat the enemy is a soldier. A general’s foundation is weighing circumstances and adapting to change; a soldier’s foremost concern is bringing strength into alignment.

Though the stars fill the sky, none surpasses the hazy moon, because their forms and brightness differ. Though the tiger is mighty, it can still be subdued by people, because its thoughts are divided and its strength cannot be brought into alignment. A hundred people acting in concert are better than ten thousand whose hearts are divided; ten people arriving together are better than a thousand fighting in succession. To gather a united force willing to risk death, benevolence and generosity must reach everyone, and rewards and punishments must be clear. As for those called “xumi” (the commentary explains “xu” as “together” and “mi” as “without”)…

Facing danger without fear, they remain united even as they tread on ice. A hundred people acting in concert are better than ten thousand whose hearts are divided; ten people arriving together are better than a thousand fighting in succession. To gather a united force willing to risk death, benevolence and generosity must reach everyone, and rewards and punishments must be clear. As for those called “xumi” (the commentary explains “xu” as “together” and “mi” as “without”)…

Facing danger without fear and walking on thin ice without trembling comes from thinking that punishment is already in store, so there is no longer any worry that one’s life is under threat. Today, soldiers face gleaming blades without sparing their lives and plunge into water and fire as though returning home. This is not because they scorn death or welcome injury, but because benevolence, virtue, and a sense of gratitude inspire them.

To win the people’s support, one must share their hardships. In hot weather, going without an umbrella for shade, and in cold weather, wearing no fur coat for warmth, is a way of enduring heat and cold together. On narrow, dangerous roads, not riding in a carriage, and getting down to walk when crossing hills, is a way of sharing the same exertion and rest. Waiting until the army’s grain has been cooked before daring to eat, and until the army’s well has been cleared before daring to drink, is a way of bearing hunger and thirst alongside the soldiers. When the three armies engage in battle, the commander stands where arrows and stones are flying, so that he and the soldiers face danger and safety together. Thus, when fine wine is poured out, every soldier in the army can share a drink.

When King Goujian of Yue was marching and encamped, someone sent him a jar of wine. Goujian said, “This one jar is not enough to share among us all.” So he poured the wine into a river and let it flow downstream. The soldiers below drank from the river and found that the water tasted of wine; together, they drank their fill.

A few gentle words to comfort the soldiers can spur the whole army to strive for merit.

When King Zhuang of Chu set out with his troops, a heavy snowfall came, and the three armies were all suffering from the cold. King Zhuang spoke gently to comfort his officers and soldiers. Hearing him, they felt as though they were wrapped in soft, warm silk padding.

Once the support of the people has been won, they will vie with one another to face death. An army like this, when sent into battle, is like a boulder hurtling down a mountain or floodwaters rushing into a valley. Who could withstand it?

Reviewing the Military, Chapter Forty-One

The Sima Fa says:

“Sima Rangju was the official in charge of military law.”

Even a powerful state will perish if it delights in war; even a peaceful world will be endangered if it forgets to prepare for war. Frequent warfare exhausts the people, while failure to train the army leaves them slack and idle.

“Slack” means negligent.

Using overwhelming military force is not a way to preserve oneself, and neglecting military affairs in peacetime is no good way to face an enemy. The army should therefore not be sent out recklessly, but neither should training and the preparation of weapons cease. This is how the people’s lives are protected while military readiness is maintained.

Confucius said, “To leave the people untrained for war is to abandon them.” The Book of Changes says, “The exemplary person repairs weapons to guard against the unexpected.” Accordingly, spring hunts, summer hunts, autumn hunts, and winter hunts are held during the lulls in farming, so that military affairs can be practiced. After three years of training and preparation, soldiers become familiar with combat and able to face the enemy.

When an army sets out, this is called “putting the troops in order,” marking the beginning of training. When it returns, this is called “reassembling the army,” marking the restoration of its ranks. After a victorious return, a drinking ceremony is held and a report is made at the ancestral temple. These acts display the rules of ritual, clarify distinctions of rank, age, and status, and familiarize the officers and soldiers with proper conduct.

The three armies are numerous and their ranks stretch far and wide, so signals and commands must be established. When the voice cannot carry to distant places, drums, bells, and other instruments convey orders; when people cannot see clearly, banners and command flags relay signals. If the people have not practiced warfare, their ears will not understand the sound of drums and bells, and their eyes will not recognize the commands conveyed by flags. They will fail to obey orders to advance or retreat, and the ranks will not keep their spacing. As a result, soldiers tremble with fear before the fighting even begins, and horses sweat before they have even galloped. This is not because the soldiers are timid or the horses weak, but because they have not been trained.

The King of Wu once had people from his palace learn to form ranks and fight, binding them by laws so that their turns, advances, and retreats all followed the rules. He trained palace attendants and consorts in warfare and had them all learn to observe the discipline of formations. Even when facing water or fire, they would not retreat. This was not because they were naturally brave and strong, but because of their training.

Likewise, whether someone is skilled or clumsy, and whether the outcome is victory or defeat, ultimately depends on whether they have practiced. Hearing that troop training had proved effective, Helü reviewed and tested the people at the Five Lakes.

The Five Lakes lie within the waters of Yue. The Hu people and the Yue people are both skilled in fighting on water.

A sword blade was laid against their shoulders, and blood flowed without end. King Goujian of Yue trained his troops by putting the people to the test where they slept and rested. They rushed into fire and water, and thousands died. Only when Goujian hurriedly struck a metal instrument to sound the signal for retreat did they withdraw. Did these people despise life and cherish death? No. It was because rewards and punishments were clear and their training was thorough.

Even Feng Meng, who was skilled at archery, could not use an unsuitable bow. He studied archery under Yi, the legendary master archer, and mastered all of Yi’s abilities; that is why he was called a skilled archer.

Even Zao Fu, the charioteer in the time of King Mu of Zhou and, according to legend, the seventh-generation ancestor of Zhao Jianzi, could not control an unruly horse.

Even Ban Chui, the legendary craftsman of the age of Shennong, could not cut and carve without a sharp axe. Even Sun Hao, a general skilled at commanding troops, could not lead untrained soldiers into battle.

The legendary figures or strange beasts Maolin and Li were once taught by the Yellow Emperor to fight. Birds such as eagles, owls, and crows were likewise taught to attack by Master Luo. Birds and beasts lack human intelligence, yet they can follow commands and learn to fight and attack. This shows the effect of training. How, then, could a state’s soldiers and people go without practice in the military arts? Thus, after repeated practice in archery and chariot driving, one can capture game while galloping on a hunt. All this comes from training. Without prior practice, soldiers may scatter and flee when battle begins; how could victory be expected? To pit trained soldiers against untrained ones is like having the Hu and Yue compete in swimming: the outcome is obvious.

For this reason, the former kings inspected their armies and selected soldiers in times of leisure, repaired their weapons, and made preparations for the state in advance. “Repairing” means putting weapons in order and readying them for use.

Chapter Forty-Two: Understanding Authority

Following the principles of things and keeping to the constant way is called the Dao. Responding flexibly to circumstances in a moment of danger is called “authority.” Authority is like the sliding weight on a balance: when weighing things, it must be adjusted according to the circumstances.

Following the principles of things and keeping to what is customary is called the Dao (the Way). When danger arises, adapting one’s course to the circumstances is called weighing the balance. The term “weighing the balance” is like the counterweight on a scale. The beam distinguishes tilt from levelness, while the counterweight measures lightness and heaviness. As objects differ in weight, the beam shows the corresponding state of balance. If a weight is now added to the left side of the beam, the right side rises; if added to the right, the left side rises. The scale is level only when the weight is not moved. In handling affairs, people too must weigh what is light and what is heavy according to the circumstances. Once they judge what is fitting, they should act accordingly, as one uses a scale.

When the ancients exercised the power to adapt, they weighed matters carefully and acted only after ensuring that their choice accorded with principle. The Book of Changes says, “Through compliance, one exercises the power to adapt.” The Analects says, “One may walk the Way with a person, yet still not be able to weigh matters with them.” Adaptation sometimes appears to depart from convention while remaining true to fundamental principles; it may seem to violate ordinary norms, yet ultimately bring about good. The crabapple blossoms, for instance, appear unusual, but in doing so accord even more fully with what is fitting.

A dutiful child should ordinarily serve their parents with a kind expression, humility, and respect, fulfilling their filial care and reverence. But if their father falls into a river, they must seize him by the hair to pull him out. This is not deliberate disrespect; it is a necessary measure to save his life. If, while rescuing his drowning father, the child accidentally injures him, the child may even address him by name when offering a formal prayer. The circumstances compel this: it is an adaptive measure.

Compassion is a natural human feeling, but for the sake of justice one may sometimes have to punish a relative. This can bring honor and uphold one’s moral standing, because the action is grounded in righteousness. Compassion and justice must therefore be weighed against each other. When justice carries greater weight, even a relative may be punished. Examples include Yu Shun exiling his arrogant younger brother Xiang, the Duke of Zhou executing Guan Shu, and the Wei minister Shi Que killing his rebellious son Shi Hou. Each acted after weighing the circumstances in this way.

Ji You’s killing of Shu Ya followed the same principle. Ji You was the younger brother of Duke Zhuang of Lu by the same mother, while Shu Ya was Duke Zhuang’s younger brother by the same father. When Duke Zhuang was gravely ill, Shu Ya wanted to install his own full brother as successor, while Duke Zhuang wanted Ji You to succeed him. Ji You held a wine banquet with Shu Ya. Qian Ya warned Shu Ya that drinking the wine would kill him, but Shu Ya drank and died. Ji You then installed Shu Ya’s son in his father’s place.

Temporarily violating filial duty to preserve the ancestral temple rites is one such case. Shun did not tell his parents in advance that he was getting married, and Xian Gao falsely claimed to be carrying out his ruler’s command. Both were acts by subjects that went against ordinary norms.

Xian Gao was a merchant from the state of Zheng, carrying goods to trade in another state. On the way, he encountered Qin troops preparing to attack Zheng. He told them, “The ruler of Zheng knows that Qin’s army is coming and has sent me with treasures to welcome you.” The Qin troops concluded that Zheng was already prepared and that its forces would soon arrive. They took Xian Gao’s goods, turned back, and abandoned their attack on Zheng. In this way, Zheng was saved. Xian Gao’s stratagem temporarily drove off the Qin army.

By comparison, the offense of cutting off the ancestral temple rites is graver; failing to inform one’s parents and falsely claiming to carry out the ruler’s command are lesser offenses. Thus temporarily departing from convention to prevent the state’s destruction is precisely a case in which adapting to circumstances accords with righteousness.

When the ordinary way can be followed, there is no need to adapt; adaptation is needed only when the ordinary way will not work. For conducting oneself in the world, the ordinary way is like the clothes and cap one wears. When judged appropriately, adaptation can protect a person like armor and a helmet. But armor and helmets cannot be worn at all times; likewise, adaptation must be weighed against circumstances and should not be used often. Only those who are wise and discerning understand how to apply it properly.

End of Volume Eight of the Liuzi.

Textual note: The character “er” was missing from the original text and has been supplied on the basis of the Wenyuange edition. The character originally written as “Chen” has been corrected to “Xi” on the basis of the Wenyuange edition.

Volume Nine of the Liuzi, with commentary by Yuan Xiaozheng, Recorder of Bozhou.

Chapter Forty-Three: Valuing Speed.

When everyone can achieve the same result, swift action is more valuable. Even if plans are equally clever, delay puts one at a disadvantage. Why? In carrying out a task, speed is prized; in applying intelligence to make plans, quickness is a strength. Those skilled at handling emergencies act like people rushing to put out a fire or rescue someone from drowning. Those who plan with clear foresight are as swift as a fine horse at full gallop or an arrow in flight.

When a house is burning and the flames are raging, one should run at once to fetch water and put out the fire. When the current is fierce and someone is being swept away, one should hurry into the water to save them. If one first dug a well before trying to put out the fire, the house would already have burned down. If one first built a boat before rescuing the drowning person, they would already have become food for the fish. A fine horse is prized because it can travel a thousand li in a day; if it took ten days to arrive, it would be no different from a poor horse. An arrow is valued because it reaches its target as soon as it is loosed; if it arrived only a day later, it would make no difference whether it reached the target at all. Intelligence is prized because it can respond in time and foresee how things will unfold. To understand only after events have passed is no different from having no intelligence.

In the past, Wu Qi, a general and reformer of the state of Chu during the Warring States period, served as Chu’s prime minister. He enforced the law harshly and stripped Chu nobles of their official ranks, so they resented him. When the King of Chu died, the crown prince had not yet arrived, and the nobles wanted to kill Wu Qi. Wu Qi fled into the palace and hid behind the king’s corpse. The nobles shot arrows, but none hit him. When Wu Qi heard that the crown prince had arrived, he pulled out an arrow and stuck it into the king’s corpse. Then he opened the door and went to meet the crown prince, saying that the nobles had shot the king’s body. On hearing this, the crown prince had all the nobles put to death. The point of this story is that Wu Qi seized the opportunity to take swift revenge on the nobles; it was his quick action that enabled him to achieve this result.

Wu Qi wanted to attack someone, so he stuck an arrow into the king of Chu’s corpse. When Yang Hu was surrounded, the people of Lu let him escape.

Yang Hu was a retainer of the Ji family, and Huanzi was one of Ji’s grandsons. Yang Hu imprisoned Huanzi. Later, taking advantage of turmoil within the Ji family, the people of Lu raised an army to attack them. Huanzi managed to escape and, in turn, imprisoned Yang Hu. The people of Lu kept watch over Yang Hu outside the gate. Yang Hu said to them, “Just let me go, and I will repay you in due course.” So they let him go.

Once free, Yang Hu stabbed the man who had released him with a dagger-axe. When Huanzi asked where Yang Hu had gone, the man replied, “As Yang Hu escaped, he stabbed me with a dagger-axe. I failed to catch him because I was too slow.”

Yang Hu had meant to repay the man who released him, yet stabbed him with a dagger-axe instead. He quickly devised a plan and responded in time. One could say he was shrewd and adept at adapting to changing circumstances.

The story of Zhang Lu’s entry into Qin was much the same. Zhang Lu was Fan Sui. While in Wei, Fan Sui was falsely accused and flogged three hundred times. His attackers thought he was dead and threw him into a latrine. He later revived, seized an opportunity to escape, and eventually made his way into Qin.

Wei Ran regretted not having Fan Sui arrested before taking action. The situation turned against him, and he was driven out.

The story of Chao Cuo cutting through a low wall likewise left Shen Tujia regretting that he had not killed Chao Cuo first and reported the matter to the emperor afterward. In the Han palace, the office of the Interior Minister originally had to be reached through the south gate, making the journey to the government offices inconvenient. The office lay behind a low wall, so Chao Cuo cut through it and went out through the east gate to reach his post. Shen Tujia was the prime minister. He submitted a memorial accusing Chao Cuo of cutting through the wall without authorization and saying he should be executed.

When Chao Cuo heard of this, he went to the palace first and reported the matter to the emperor. After learning the circumstances, the emperor judged that Chao Cuo had cut through only a low wall and had done nothing wrong. Shen Tujia submitted his memorial afterward, arguing that by law Chao Cuo deserved death for cutting through the wall. The emperor said, “It was only a low wall; no offense was committed.” Chao Cuo therefore escaped punishment. Shen Tujia regretted it bitterly and eventually died in resentment.

Thus, even if one exerts every last ounce of strength, one may fail to turn the situation around before death. To make no judgment in time, then regret it only after failure, is no wiser than having no wisdom at all. So wisdom that cannot be put into action is not true wisdom; nor is the ability to act true wisdom if one cannot respond swiftly to changing circumstances. An old saying goes, “Strength is prized for speed, wisdom for decisiveness.” This is what it means.

Observing Measure, Chapter Forty-Four

When a person devotes all their attention to trivial details, they are bound to overlook important matters. When they focus only on what lies before them, they are likely to undervalue the long term. A person’s attention cannot rest on many things at once, so it is difficult to attend to everything. Once caught up in small matters, one can easily forget the important ones. For example, looking up to thread a needle, one cannot see the sky; bending down to pick up a louse, one cannot see the earth. The sky and earth are vast, yet go unseen because the needle and louse have captured the gaze.

Thus, people of insight know that becoming fixated on minor concerns obstructs the handling of important matters, and that excessive scrutiny undermines sound judgment of the whole. They set aside petty calculations and let their minds open out. From this we can see that someone who is always overly attentive to small matters and painstaking in their calculations lacks far-reaching ambition, and will not have a broad mind or generous bearing. Why is this so? Because people of true insight understand that minor concerns obstruct important matters and close scrutiny harms the larger picture; they therefore let go of petty distinctions and calculations.

Seeing the stature of the people of Jiaoyao, one knows they could not be as tall as the people of Fangfeng. Jiaoyao is the name of a country, whose people were said to be three chi tall; Fangfeng is also the name of a country, whose people were said to be four zhang tall. Seeing an elephant’s tusk, one knows it is larger than a pig; seeing a civet’s tail, one knows it is smaller than a leopard. Thus, one can infer many things from a single thing, and understand other things from what is seen at hand.

A shallow hoofprint cannot raise a flood dragon, nor can a hillock grow pines or parasol trees. This does not mean that the nature of water or soil is absolutely incapable of producing such things, but that the place is too small. Cooking with just a few grains of rice, or weighing out the firewood for a meal, also reflects a person’s narrow outlook and cramped mind. Gengsangzi once made this point; Yang Zhu, by contrast, was narrow in temperament and petty in his actions.

This was not because they deliberately made things difficult, but because their outlook was narrow and they paid attention only to petty details. When Xiang Yu was young, his father had him learn calligraphy. Before he had finished, he said, “Writing is only good for recording one’s own name.” He then took up swordsmanship, but thought it could defeat only one person, so he turned to learning how to withstand a host of armies. He later contended with the Han for supremacy. Thus, Xiang Yu stopped studying calligraphy and chose to learn swordsmanship.

Han Xin did not attend to the preparation of everyday meals, not because he cared nothing for practical skills or disliked fine food, but because his ambitions were broad and he did not want to be entangled in trivial matters.

Wenzhongmi of Jin, the person and episode described in the original, brought rice seeds from a foreign country. Though the seeds did not grow, the story was said to show that his ambitions were far-reaching. Zengzi of Lu, also known as Zeng Shen, likewise brought back sheepskin from a foreign country and buried it in the soil to plant. Sheepskin, of course, cannot grow into sheep; this story too is used to illustrate his far-reaching ambitions.

Some people fail to see the situation in all directions, not because they are naturally unable to find their bearings, but because their gaze reaches far and they are unfamiliar with small matters close at hand. When Zhibo’s cook was roasting meat for him, he lost a basket of sliced meat. Zhibo noticed this small mishap, yet failed to see that the three houses of Zhao, Han, and Wei were about to rebel. Later, Zhao destroyed him, and he had not foreseen that either. The point is that his attention was fixed on small things, leaving him unable to plan for major ones.

When a peach went missing from Deng Ziyang’s garden, he knew at once. Yet he failed to notice his ministers’ plot against him and was ultimately killed. This too shows that he attended only to minor losses and could not foresee grave calamities.

Even when people have recognized the harm something causes, they may still fail to understand why it will disappear of its own accord. This is because they focus their thoughts on small matters and forget the larger principle.

No matter how skillful a fisherman may be—with a finely made rod, a long, thin line, a sharp hook, and fragrant bait, as well as the renowned angler Zhan He’s expertise—he cannot catch as much as someone using a large net. Zhan He once used silk thread for a line, a bent needle for a hook, and a grain of rice for bait. He lowered the line into a pool ten thousand fathoms deep and caught enough fish to fill a cart. The line did not snap, the hook did not bend, and the rod did not break. This shows that no matter how great one person’s skill may be, it cannot match a method that operates on a larger scale.

A bird hunter with the Fanzhuo bow, a Kuaiji arrow, and the superb skill of Puju, the renowned archer of Chu, still cannot match someone who hunts with a large net. Why? Because his method is too limited in scale.

Even if rotten things and corpses float in the waters of rivers, lakes, and seas, people can still drink from them because the volume of water is vast. But if a rat’s tail brushes the water in a basin, people will be disgusted and pour it away, because there is so little water.

Consider the sour jujube tree: when it is only a few inches tall, it grows many branches. The camphor tree, by contrast, does not grow a profusion of branches and trunks until it is a hundred feet high. Why? Perhaps the branches seem especially dense on a small tree, while the branches and knots seem sparse on a large one. The commentator explains that “ji” means “many branches.”

Thus, the mind of a perceptive person is as broad and deep as waters that conceal boundless depths. A narrow-minded person’s thoughts remain confined to small, trivial concerns. From a higher vantage point, one can clearly see a person’s choices and conduct, as well as the breadth or narrowness of their outlook.

Chapter Forty-Five: Adapting to the Times

Times differ in their degree of simplicity or corruption, and customs differ between the central lands and the border regions. They cannot be governed by the same methods, nor can every place be judged by a single standard. Thus, in the age of the Three Sovereigns, the people were guided through rule by Wuwei (non-action); when the Seven Warring States stood alongside one another, rulers governed through laws and political tactics. The people of the Central Plain were calmed through Virtue and righteousness, while the peoples of the four directions were made to stand in awe through decrees and punishments.

That is why the Classic of Changes values adapting to the times, and ritual systems, too, call for following local customs: what one does should suit the circumstances of the moment. When the frosty winds blew fiercely, Zhou Qi did not hurry to harvest the crops. When the summer heat was oppressive, Cao Ming did not rush to make leather garments, because they knew the season was unsuitable. Nor would a seller of zhangfu ceremonial hats travel to Min and Yue, two ancient southern states, to make them.

“Wu” means a pair of straw sandals. Wearing straw sandals, one cannot enter a narrow space.

“Liao” refers to someone who wears no headscarf and no shoes. Such a person knows this goes against worldly etiquette and therefore acts this way. To relieve someone’s hunger, giving them acorns and beans is better than giving them priceless pearls. “Li” means the fruit of a tree, and “shu” means soybeans.

To rescue someone from drowning, handing them a short rope is better than giving them a piece of jade a foot square. The “short stalk” mentioned here means a short rope.

Wood and bamboo are not more precious, nor are pearls and jade inferior. Different things simply have different uses. What people value depends on what they most urgently need at the time. When someone is starving or close to drowning, can pearls and jade save their life? Thus, if a boat is wrecked in a river and someone happens to fish out a gourd, that gourd will be regarded as worth a thousand pieces of gold. Worth is not fixed; it is often determined by the circumstances of the moment.

Long ago, when Qin attacked Liang, King Hui of Liang said to Meng Ke, “Sir, you have come a thousand li at great effort and honored my humble state with your presence. Qin is now attacking Liang. What can you advise me to do to resist them?” Meng Ke replied, “In the past, the Great King of Zhou lived in Bin, and the Di people came to attack him. He offered them jade and silk and tried to negotiate, but it did no good. Unwilling to bring harm to the people, the Great King left Bin and moved to the region around Mount Qi. Why, then, does Your Majesty not leave Liang?” King Hui was displeased by this answer.

What Liang valued most was its state, and even if he were told to leave Liang, King Hui might not have been able to do so. Nor would such a course have been suitable in every age. Meng Ke’s words accorded with benevolence and righteousness, but they did not meet King Hui’s immediate needs. It was like giving pearls and jade to someone who was starving, or throwing jade into the water when someone was about to drown: the objects may be fine, but they cannot help with the urgent need at hand.

Duke Xiao of Qin asked Shang Yang how to govern Qin. Shang Yang proposed reforming the laws and imposing severe punishments. After these policies had been in force for three years, the people were prosperous, the army was strong, the state was well governed, and its power inspired fear and submission among the feudal lords. Meng Ke’s advice that the Great King of Zhou leave his ancestral land in the name of benevolence and righteousness might not have suited the circumstances of that time. Shang Yang’s policies seemed harsh and severe, yet they enabled Qin to be governed effectively. This does not mean that benevolence and righteousness cannot be put into practice, nor that harsh laws and severe punishments are better. Rather, times differ in how honest and simple, or how corrupt and degenerate, they are, and laws, orders, and moral instruction must also differ accordingly. In an age when the feudal lords formed alliances to resist Qin, the Way of benevolence and righteousness could not necessarily be put fully into practice.

A bright mirror is meant to show someone their appearance, but a blind person might use one to cover a wine cup. A jade hair ornament is meant to adorn the hair, but a bald old woman might use one to hang things from. This does not mean the mirror or the jade ornament is poor; they are simply of no use to those people.

Ding the Cook, who was skilled at carving oxen, served a need of his time. Zhu Han, who slew dragons, was of no practical use.

Zhu Han spent a thousand gold pieces to learn the art of slaying dragons from Master Tailong. Though he mastered the art at great expense, it had no use in ordinary life.

If something does not meet the needs of its time, even the most extraordinary skill will ultimately come to nothing. Thus, when Laozi went to the Western Rong lands, an ancient name for the regions west of China, he expressed himself in words the local people could understand. When Yu the Great entered the Land of the Naked, a legendary country where people went unclothed, he removed his clothes and followed local custom. This was not because he wished to forget proper rites, but because he adapted to the place.

Mozi lived simply and opposed music because he believed it brought no practical benefit: men might neglect farming for it, and women might neglect weaving. For this reason, he argued against music. Later, when he went to meet the King of Jing, the king of Chu, Mozi wore fine clothes and played the sheng, a mouth organ, in keeping with the customs of the time. He did not act against his own nature; he followed the preferences of the people around him.

Duke Ai of Lu favored Confucian dress and conduct, yet the state of Lu was weakened. The ruler of Dai valued Mohist teachings and practiced deference, but his state suffered. Duke Yan of Xu promoted benevolence and righteousness, yet his state eventually fell. The ruler of Yan esteemed righteous conduct, and his state too was destroyed.

The fundamental cause of these states being weakened, harmed, or destroyed was the calamity brought on by disorder and rebellion. This does not mean that benevolence and righteousness, or the teachings of the Confucians and Mohists, should not be practiced. Their untimely application was what led to these outcomes.

Customs, Chapter Forty-Six

“Customs” (feng) refers to the climate and sounds shaped by the local soil and water. “Practices” (su) refers to habits people have formed over a long period. Soil and water differ from place to place; the local atmosphere may be gentle or brisk, and voices high or low. Such differences are called “customs.” As people live in a place, their habits gradually shape their temperament. These habits are called “practices.”

Customs and practices may be simple and sincere or shallow and frivolous. A wise ruler, in educating the people, should transform their customs so they become refined and upright, and change their practices so they become proper. Through education, the ruler influences the people and shapes their customs; when the people adopt these ways and follow them, practices take shape.

In the regions of Chu and Yue, customs honored martial valor, and people were willing to face death without regard for their lives. In Zheng and Wei, customs favored indulgence, and people’s practices were frivolous and unrestrained, keeping them lingering in pleasure. The state of Jin inherited the legacy of the eras of Tang Yao and Yu Shun, so its people saved their wealth and lived simply. The state of Qi inherited the teachings left by Duke Jing of Qi, and its people were extravagant and wasteful, competing with one another in display.

Taiji, the eldest daughter of King Mu of Zhou and wife of the ruler of Chen, had no sons and favored shamanic rites. She served the spirits and prayed for blessings, hoping to bear an heir. Seeing her do this, the people of the state also began to honor the spirits and pray for blessings. Thus a practice of serving spirits and seeking good fortune took shape.

Prince Dan of Yan welcomed guests and lodged warriors in the rear palace. He wanted Jing Ke to enter Qin and assassinate the King of Qin, so he received Jing Ke as an honored guest and had his concubines attend him. Later, people of Yan followed this example, assigning their wives and concubines to attend their guests. They considered this a way to honor guests, but the practice did not accord with ritual propriety.

In some places, people receive their wives and concubines as guests. Such customs arise from the influence of those in high positions: people gradually grow accustomed to them, and they become local practice.

East of Yue was the state of Womu. When a man’s father died, people there would carry off his mother and abandon her, saying that she was a ghost and could not live with his wife. When a first son was born, they would cut off a piece of his flesh and eat it; the mother called the child “Brother’s Blessing.” South of Chu was the state of Danren. When a relative died, people would cut flesh from the body, bury the bones, and call this filial conduct. West of Qin was the state of Yiqu. When someone died, people would gather firewood and burn the body, sending its smoke straight up to the sky; they called this “ascending in rosy clouds.” North of the Hu lands was the state of Shegu. When a relative died, people would cast the body into a river and call this “becoming a water immortal.” These were the differing customs of the frontier peoples in the four directions.

The former kings grieved over the decline of customs. They therefore established ritual teachings to prevent abuses and prescribed ritual and music to harmonize people’s dispositions. In this way, they transformed prevailing attitudes, improved local customs, and brought all under Heaven back to the right path.

Benefit and harm are the foundations of gain and loss; gain and loss, in turn, are the source of success and failure. So people pursue what benefits them and avoid what harms them, welcome gain, and dislike loss. This is the natural disposition of all things. Everyone knows to seek benefit and avoid harm, yet few understand that avoiding an immediate danger can sometimes mean missing a benefit. Everyone knows to welcome gain and dislike loss, yet few realize that some losses are precisely what make later gains possible. Only when we understand that benefit can sometimes become harm and harm can become benefit, and that gain may turn into loss while loss may bring gain, can we speak of benefit and harm, gain and loss.

When someone has an internal fever, taking poison is certainly harmful. When someone has an abscess or ulcer, treatment with a stone lancet—a stone needle used in ancient times to puncture or cut the affected area—certainly hurts. Yet people still undergo these treatments because bearing a little pain for a time can remove much greater pain, and enduring lesser harm can eliminate more serious harm.

Eating twice as much when hungry, drinking a great deal when thirsty, jumping into water in hot weather, and moving close to a fire in the cold may bring immediate comfort, but they are bound to leave trouble in their wake. Using calamus, an aromatic herb, to drive away fleas and lice may attract centipedes. Using alum to ease the pain of tooth decay may cause the tooth root to rot. Though the pain subsides for a while, greater harm will follow. This is what happens when one attends only to a small, immediate benefit and forgets a greater, long-term gain; one removes a minor harm only to invite a serious one.

Someone with a lesion on the chest—an ailment of the skin or muscle—may be afraid to have it cut away with a pi knife, an ancient surgical blade. If a scorpion stings a horse’s fetlock, one may be afraid to cut the part off. This is not because one welcomes illness or is reluctant to remove poison, but because the danger of cutting with a pi knife may be greater than the harm of the scorpion’s sting.

A thirsty person may refuse a brimming cup of wine, not because they are not thirsty, but because they know drinking it would kill them at once. Gold may be burning in a furnace, yet a thief will not reach in to seize it—not because he does not want it, but because he knows he will be burned. With a fierce tiger right before him, even Zhi, the younger brother of Liuxia Hui, has no time to pick up a pearl lying on the ground. With a shell hanging over his chest and Xishi, the legendary beauty, along the road, even someone with Jingyang’s notorious lust would have no leisure to pay attention.

Sometimes, then, people have no time to look around them. It is not that they do not value treasures or admire beauty; they simply pay no attention because the gain before them comes quickly, while the danger at hand is more pressing.

Long ago, a valuable piece of brocade from the state of Qi was put up for sale in the marketplace. In full view of the crowd, a man stole it. The officials seized him and asked, “Why did you steal the brocade in the middle of a crowd?” He replied, “I saw only the brocade. I saw no people, so I took it.” This man was so dazzled by the gain before him that he forgot the trouble it might bring. Newly hatched sparrows, eager to eat the bait, pay no heed to danger and are easily caught in nets.

When sparrows are just born, their beaks are yellow. Confucius saw a birdcatcher setting a net and asked, “Why do you catch only the yellow-beaked sparrows and not the larger ones?” The birdcatcher replied, “The young sparrows are greedy and easily lured by bait. The larger birds are wary and do not covet it, so they are hard to catch.”

A magpie, too, forgot its own safety because it coveted an immediate gain. Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi) saw a magpie in the garden at Diaoling. Its tail was seven feet long, and it looked very unusual. He took up his slingshot and entered the garden, intending to shoot it. Just as the magpie was about to settle, Zhuang Zhou suddenly came to his senses and thought, “This is the chestnut garden of the King of Chu. If I shoot a bird inside it and the king finds out, he will say I stole his chestnuts.” So he put away his slingshot and left.

Thus, when the wise see a gain, they first consider its difficulties and risks. Those who see only the gain forget the dangers. If one thinks of the risks, disaster may be averted; if one forgets the dangers, disaster may arrive. From this, the relationship between gain and harm, and the wisdom of approaching one or avoiding the other, become clear.

Fortune and Misfortune, Chapter Forty-Eight

Fortune and misfortune share a common root, and calamity and auspiciousness belong to the same sphere. Misfortune may conceal good fortune, while good fortune may harbor misfortune. A calamity that appears may sometimes turn into an auspicious sign, while an auspicious omen that arrives may in turn become a sign of ill fortune. Only those who understand that fortune and misfortune, calamity and auspiciousness, can transform into one another are fit to discuss the patterns of change in things.

Hao’s army won a great victory and thought itself fortunate, yet it later suffered the siege of Gusu.

King Helü of Wu, who ruled during the Spring and Autumn period, fought King Goujian of Yue at the foot of Mount Kuaiji and won a great victory. After his army returned home, Helü began building Gusu Terrace, but it remained unfinished even after seven years. Later, seeing the people suffer around the Five Lakes because of the construction, Goujian raised an army and destroyed Wu. The Wu army was defeated. At first, Gusu Terrace was seen as a source of good fortune, but in the end it brought great disaster.

When Yue retreated to Kuaiji, people thought it was a calamity. Later, however, Yue became the dominant power around the Five Lakes.

The King of Rong, ruler of the Western Rong, took his country’s strength and prosperity as a blessing, but was later captured and killed beneath a wine vessel.

When Chen Pian, a prince of Qi, fled, people thought it was a calamity. In the end, however, he was treated generously and received good fortune.

Calamity and good fortune transform into each other, and it is difficult to predict them by any fixed rule. Long ago, a family in the state of Song had a white calf born to them. People took it as an auspicious sign, but later the family suffered the calamity of blindness. In the end, however, this misfortune spared the father and son from war and saved their lives.

An old man in the north acquired a horse from the Hu people. At first he thought it was a good thing, but later the horse ran away, and his son fell and was injured while riding it. Though the son suffered this injury, in the end it helped save his life.

In the lands north of the frontier, a family raised a stallion. The horse wandered into the lands of the Hu people, and three years later returned with a herd of Hu horses. The family’s son loved riding, but one of the returned horses threw him, breaking his leg. Later, the Hu people invaded the frontier lands, and the local men were all conscripted. The frontier army fought the Hu, but no one prevailed; instead, the Hu killed them all. Only this family’s father, who was old, and son, whose leg was injured, were spared from the campaign and survived. This is how misfortune can become good fortune.

After seeing an inauspicious sign, one may cultivate De (virtue) and do good deeds; then an ill omen may turn into an auspicious one. After seeing an auspicious sign, if one does not do good, it too may turn into a calamity.

Long ago, during the reign of King Wu Ding of Shang, a mulberry tree and a millet tree grew together in the royal court at Bo. “Together” means that they had gathered in one place. The commentary says that mulberry and millet trees were both considered inauspicious; their growing together in the court was regarded as a strange omen.

After consulting the oracles, the court historian said, “Weeds are growing in the royal court. The state is probably on the verge of collapse.” Wu Ding was therefore alarmed. He carefully examined himself and cultivated his virtue. The mulberry and millet trees then withered of their own accord. The Shang dynasty’s prestige spread far and wide, and envoys from across the four quarters came to pay court, traveling through many interpreters. The fortunes of the Shang dynasty were thereby renewed.

During the reign of Di Xin of Shang, a sparrow gave birth to a kite. The kite is a bird of prey, belonging to the same class as the Peng. The commentary quotes the Zhu Pian as saying that the Peng and Hong are vicious birds that feed on flesh.

At the corner of the city wall, a court historian made a divination and said, “A small thing is growing into a large one; the state is sure to prosper.” King Zhou of Shang, Di Xin, was arrogant and tyrannical, and ultimately brought about the fall of Yin. Thus, strange omens and disasters are meant to warn rulers and feudal lords, while strange dreams are meant to warn the people. If good governance can overcome strange omens and disasters, ill omens will turn auspicious; if good words can overcome strange dreams, blessings will instead turn into calamities.

When people encounter misfortune, they are bound to feel fear. Fear gives rise to reverence; reverence can bring blessings, and blessings bring joy. Yet joy may make people proud, and pride invites misfortune. Therefore, when a junzi encounters an auspicious sign, he does not become excessively joyful. Instead, he cultivates himself through respectful care, restraint, and sincerity. When he encounters a strange omen, he does not become excessively sorrowful, but makes cultivating virtue his chief concern. In this way, he can communicate with the spirits, dispel calamity, and bring down blessings.

Greed and Attachment, Chapter Forty-Nine

A small gain is an excuse for giving up a great gain; a little reluctance to part with something is the beginning of great calamity. If one covets a small gain, one is sure to lose a greater one; if one cannot give up a little benefit, great calamity will follow.

In the past, the ruler of Shu was greedy by nature. When King Hui of Qin heard of this, he wanted to attack Shu, but Shu’s steep ravines and impassable roads made it difficult for an army to enter. So the Qin carved stones into the shape of oxen, placed heaps of gold behind them, and displayed them each day, calling the gold “ox dung.” They said they intended to give it to the ruler of Shu. Coveting these stone oxen, the ruler had mountains cut through and valleys filled, then sent the five strongmen—legendary figures of great strength in Shu—to fetch them. Qin’s army followed in their wake, and Shu was destroyed. Its ruler lost his life and became a laughingstock throughout the realm. This happened because he coveted a small gain and lost something far greater.

Bai Gong Sheng of Chu was greedy and miserly by nature. He set himself up as ruler in Bai County, then later raised troops in rebellion, seized the capital of Chu, and killed Zixi, the Chu lingyin, a high official who directed the affairs of state.

Bai Gongsheng killed Zixi, seized Xing in the state of Chu, and gathered so many treasures that they filled the storehouses. Yet he did not share them with anyone. Shi urged him, “Now disaster is upon us. The state is in danger and may not survive. You can already see clearly what will decide whether we win or lose, live or perish. If you cannot distribute your wealth to win people’s support, you would do better to burn it, so the enemy cannot take it and use it against us.” Bai Gong still would not listen.

When Ye Gong entered the city, he opened the government treasury and distributed its wealth among the people, bringing out the storehouses’ treasures to reward them. Ye Gong then sent troops against Bai Gong. Nineteen days later, Bai Gong was defeated and died. The wealth did not originally belong to him, yet he insisted on keeping it for himself; his stinginess thus brought great disaster.

In the cold lands there is a beast called the “bao.” In the Wuxun Mountains there is another beast, with a sheep’s body and a human face. Its eyes are beneath its arms, and its horns grow on its chest. Its cry sounds like a baby’s, and it is greedy by nature. People call it “Taotie.” It likes to grind its horns until they are sharp, hoping to satisfy its greed with them. But this injures its heart, and its vital energy becomes clogged within, until it dies. Another account says that when it bends its head to grind its horns, they press against its chest and wound its heart, causing its death.

In Yanzhou there is a bird called the “xiao.” It lives in caves and broods over its chicks while crouching. Once the young have grown and their feathers have developed, they first eat their mother, then fly away. The bird described here is a kind of quail. The Book of Odes says, “Quail, quail: singing when they leave, weeping when they return.” This means that they first bring auspicious signs, then later bring ill fortune; it refers to this kind of bird.

A mother beast crouches on the ground to nurse her young. After a hundred days, they have grown and their wings have developed; they then turn on their mother and fly away. The king of Shu received cattle from Qin. The more robust the cattle grew, the more precarious the king’s position became. How is this different from holding a grindstone to sharpen an ox’s horns? The sharper the horns become, the sooner their owner meets disaster. Bai Gong amassed wealth: the more his riches grew, the sooner he met his end. It is like an owl raising its young: the larger they grow, the more easily they bring harm to their parent.

Thus, those who understand how things work can discern the signs that fortune and misfortune are about to change, and grasp the roots of success and failure. They do not harm themselves by chasing gains that depend on luck, nor bring disaster upon themselves through excessive stinginess. The Laozi says, “The more wealth one stores away, the greater the loss that tends to follow.” The Book of Rites says, “When accumulating wealth, one must also know how to give it away.” Both statements show that people should be content and moderate, and beware the first signs of greed and miserliness.

Chapter Fifty: Resonance among Like Things

Things gather according to their kind and are distinguished according to their different groups. Identical sounds answer one another, while differing vital energies do not harmonize. Things of the same kind resonate with one another even across great distances; things belonging to different groups may fail to harmonize even when close together. Thus, when a copper mountain in Shu collapsed, a bronze bell far away rang in response.

During the Jin dynasty, a copper mountain in Shu collapsed, and bronze vessels, bells, and stone chimes throughout the realm sounded in response.

Although the Zi and Mian Rivers flow together in one waterway, they retain different colors and tastes. When things resonate, they always answer things of their own kind. This is a natural principle.

During the Jin dynasty, when Zhang Hua was distinguishing flavors, the king of Jin mixed water from the Zi and Mian Rivers and cooked it into a soup, which he served to Zhang Hua. After tasting it, Zhang Hua said that the soup contained the flavors of both rivers.

Thus, flying creatures belong to the Yang category, while creatures that hide beneath the surface belong to the Yin category. That is why deer shed their antlers at the summer solstice;

Deer shed their antlers on the day of the summer solstice, and elk shed theirs on the day of the winter solstice.

When the moon wanes, clams and mussels also undergo a change.

Clams and mussels are said to form pearls at the end of the month, then change into shellfish at the beginning of the next. This has been passed down since ancient times as a regular pattern. The Classic of Mountains and Seas says, “As the sun and moon wane, clams and mussels likewise diminish and wax.” Here, “diminish” refers to their forming.

When a qilin appears in a country, a solar eclipse occurs there; when a whale dies, a comet appears in the sky. When the east wind arrives, the wine in jars swells to the brim; when silkworms spin their thread, the merchants’ silk supply runs out. When the new grain is harvested, the old grain becomes scarce. When a dragon rises from a well, clouds spread across the nine heavens.

Long ago, when Boyi dug a well, he sensed a dragon riding the rain as it rose to the nine heavens. Dark clouds descended with overwhelming force and spread across the world.

When a tiger roars in a valley, the wind blows across ten thousand miles. When a yangsui—a mirror used in ancient times to focus sunlight and kindle fire—is held up, the sun’s fire descends. The sun is the source of daylight; the yangsui is a fire mirror. When the mirror reflects the sun, fire comes down with it, as though it had appeared in response.

When a square pearl—a regularly shaped, reflective bead—is turned in the hand, the water of Lesser Yin appears. Lesser Yin refers to the moon. Clear as water, the square pearl is like a water mirror. It reflects the moon, and the moon seems to respond by bringing forth water. These are all examples of things of the same kind responding to one another.

When the Ji star draws near the moon, a whirlwind rises; when the Bi star moves across the sky, a sudden downpour falls. When the sky is about to grow windy, fine dust has not yet stirred, but crows are already calling. The hongri is a kind of crow, shaped like a chicken and fond of eating snakes.

When rain is about to fall, not even a cloud has spread across the sky, yet ants and earthworms have already begun to move. Birds in their nests can foresee the wind; insects in their burrows can foresee the rain. As wind and rain approach, birds, beasts, and insects react in advance.

When the light of the Great White Star—that is, Venus—shines brightly, chickens are sure to crow at night; when the Fire Essence, meaning Mars, blazes strongly, horses are sure to startle at dawn. Chickens correspond to Dui Metal: Dui belongs to Metal among the Five Phases and the Eight Trigrams, and governs chickens. Metal is the essence of weapons. Horses correspond to Li Fire: Li belongs to Fire and governs horses. Fire is the spirit of military force. When weapons and warfare are about to arise, abnormal signs appear.

“Fushou” refers to a person’s head hanging upside down from a halberd, an expression for an omen of disaster in war. When armor is donned and an army is about to march, birds and beasts also sense what is coming. When an ao calls in the wild, the ao in the water answers; when a tengshe cries out boldly from a halberd, this too is a sign that war is about to begin.

The giant turtle calls out in the wilderness, and the giant turtle in the deep responds. The male flying serpent calls from upwind, and the female flying serpent calls from downwind; they can answer one another and transform into forms. This is because the vital energies of Jing and Qi among beings of the same kind communicate with one another. They respond naturally without being summoned, like a shout and its echo, or a body and its shadow.

So, when dry firewood is carried to put out a fire, the dry wood catches fire first; when water is poured over level ground, the damp places are soaked first. Pluck a string made from an ox’s horn, and the eyes will twitch; strike the side of a boat, and waves will rise. All things respond to one another through their shared kind, and spirits transform through Qi. How could this happen only with human feelings?

End of Volume Nine of the Liuzi

Volume Ten of the Liuzi

Annotated by Yuan Xiaozheng, Registrar and Military Adviser of Bozhou

On Proper Appraisal, Chapter Fifty-One

“Appraisal” is used to distinguish what is true from what is not; “evaluation” is used to weigh matters and principles. If appraisal is not impartial, the facts become confused; if evaluation is unfair, principles lose their true character. Principles are distorted when the ancients are revered and people of the present are dismissed; facts are muddled when hearsay is trusted and what one has seen with one’s own eyes is set aside.

Though ancient and modern times differ, they are equally close to the way of sagehood. Though hearing and seeing differ, the ability to know things is shared. If our capacity for knowing is the same but our appraisals differ, they cannot be called impartial. If the principles of a matter are shared but evaluations differ, those evaluations cannot be considered sound. When evaluation is not impartial, both facts and principles are turned upside down.

People today can paint ghosts and monsters with great skill, yet find it hard to depict dogs and horses faithfully. Why? Ghosts and monsters have no fixed appearance, while the forms of dogs and horses are clearly visible. Things without fixed appearances can be rendered as extraordinary through strange imaginings; things with clear forms cannot be arbitrarily distorted or have right and wrong reversed. A faithful depiction of its subject is what makes a painting fine. With things that have no form, strange imaginings can be used to call what is wrong right; when a real form serves as the model, even a correct depiction may be suspected of being wrong.

In the past, Duke Ai of Lu admired the virtues attributed to Ji and Xie, yet failed to recognize Confucius’s sagacity. Duke Jing of Qi admired Guan Zhong’s strategic ability, yet did not know Yan Ying’s wisdom. Zhang Bosong looked up from afar to Dong Zhongshu’s learning, …

Zhang Baisong lived during the Han dynasty. Duke Ai of Lu, wholly devoted to admiring Ji and Xie, the legendary worthy ministers of antiquity, failed to recognize the sage virtue of Confucius. Duke Jing of Qi praised Guan Zhong’s strategic skill but did not understand Yan Ying’s wisdom. Zhang Baisong admired Dong Zhongshu’s learning from afar but overlooked the talent of Yang Ziyun (Yang Xiong).

Confucius’s sage virtue was no less than that of Ji and Xie; Yan Ying’s worth was no less than Guan Zhong’s; and Yang Ziyun’s talent was no less than Dong Zhongshu’s. Yet they were not held in equal esteem. Is this not because people value those of old and slight those of the present, prize people far away and overlook those nearby, trust what they hear and discount what they see with their own eyes, and care only about reputation without examining what is real?

What people say in everyday life does not necessarily come from a deliberate attempt to praise one side and disparage another, embellish a reputation, or diminish the truth. The problem is that beauty and ugliness are mixed together, truth and falsehood are hard to tell apart, and people judge things by their own impressions, deciding right and wrong according to their own ideas. If one tries to assess the tiniest differences in weight by inward estimation alone, no one can reliably tell them apart. Put an object on a balance, and even a fraction of a hair’s breadth in difference will reveal which is heavier. Thus the sages, knowing that right and wrong are hard to distinguish and weight hard to judge, established standards for measuring the truth of things. When the balance is hung level, no one can deceive it about which object is heavier. Once the ink line is set, no one can call crooked straight or straight crooked. Once the compass and square are fixed, no one can confuse round with square. Measure things by established standards, and truth and falsehood are easy to distinguish; infer principles from personal opinion alone, and right and wrong are hard to see.

Someone in Yue cooked snake to serve a visitor from Qin. The visitor ate it with relish, thinking it was carp. When he later learned that he had eaten snake, he clutched his throat and vomited. This was because he did not know how to distinguish flavors. Someone in Zhao played a tune, falsely claiming it was the music of Boya, and people throughout the world eagerly learned it. When they later discovered that Boya had not played it, they folded up their fingers and stopped playing. This was because they did not know how to distinguish music. Someone in Song obtained a piece of Yan stone—stone from the land of Yan—and mistook it for fine jade, storing it carefully in a bronze box. When he later learned it was only stone, he threw away both stone and box. This was because he did not know how to recognize jade. Someone in Ying wrote a rhapsody and falsely claimed it was by Lingjun, Qu Yuan’s courtesy name. People throughout the land repeated it after him. When they later learned it was not Qu Yuan’s work, they all fell silent and stopped reciting it. This was because they did not know how to distinguish writing. Thus, of those who mistake snake for carp, only Yi Ya, the legendary cook skilled at discerning flavors, would not mistake the taste; of those who mistake a Zhao tune for refined music, only Zhong Qi, the discerning listener, would not mistake the sound; and of those who mistake Yan stone for fine jade, only Qi Dun…

These were people of Qin, skilled at recognizing fine jade, who would not mistake genuine jade for something else.

Yi Ya was skilled at distinguishing flavors, and Zhong Ziqi was skilled at distinguishing music; both rose to the rank of minister through their abilities. Of those who considered the Ying Fu elegant in its wording, only Sima Xiangru refrained from praising it indiscriminately.

Once, two men appraised a piece of jade together. One called it good, the other called it ugly. They argued for a long time but could not settle the matter. So one said, “Look at it through my eyes, and you will be able to tell whether the jade is good or bad.” Jade has a fixed shape, but people’s judgments differ. This does not necessarily mean that one person is deliberately contradicting the other; perhaps their eyes simply see things differently.

In the hall, pearls hung among the curtains, their golden ornaments set with green hues and rosy colors interwoven, shining brilliantly. A drunk man’s eyes rolled, and he saw them as flames. The curtains and ornaments had not changed their shape; his eyes had changed. A mirror is shaped like a cup. When used to reflect Xishi, the legendary beauty, held upright it makes her face appear long; held sideways, it makes her face appear wide. Xishi’s appearance has not changed; only her reflection in the mirror is different.

People living by the sea look toward islands in the distance and think they resemble boats; when they see boats, they think they resemble something else. But someone looking for a boat will not go searching for an island, and someone shooting at a distant target will not aim at a boat, because they know that looking from too far away can deceive the eyes and confuse the mind. People walking at the foot of a mountain look up at trees on the ridge and think they resemble hairpins; when they see a tiger in a cave, they think it resembles a dog. They will not climb a tree to look for a hairpin, nor call out in search of a dog, because they know that looking from too high up can deceive the eyes and confuse the mind.

Yet when people judge others or comment on writing, they sometimes mistake the great for the small, and the talented for the mediocre and foolish, without realizing that their own eyes are blurred and their minds confused. Is this not just like mistaking things when looking across mountains and seas from a distance?

Once, Confucius began by eating millet, and his attendants covered their mouths and laughed.

Someone offered Confucius millet to eat. He did not eat the other foods first, but began with the millet. A serving attendant covered his mouth and laughed at him. Confucius said, “Millet is the most important of the five grains, so I eat it first.”

Ziyou wore coarse cloth and spoke expansively about learning; Zeng Shen made a gesture and then laughed. Even the conduct of sages may be faultless and still invite mockery. How much more so for ordinary people without renown: how could their bearing and words escape ridicule? From this we can see that what is upright may be called crooked, and what is beautiful may be called ugly. Reputation and reality are turned upside down—how lamentable.

Today, those who expound principles entrust their writings to kindred spirits. A discerning and perceptive gentleman surpasses the understanding of those who came before; with a penetrating eye, he can recognize principles beyond expectation. He is not misled by reputation or appearances, nor does he let changes between past and present alter his judgment. He grasps the central intent of a text and sets aside its surface embellishments; he neither overlooks subtle goodness nor conceals a faint glimmer. Such a person may be called one who appears only once in a thousand years.

Chapter Fifty-Two: Stirring and Opening

When people climb a steep ridge, they want to see farther; when they reach the edge of a deep ravine, they are bound to peer down to its bottom. Passing a grave brings sorrow; standing in an ancestral temple, a place for honoring ancestors, inspires reverence. These places have no will of their own, yet they bring out what is sincere and what is feigned in people. The terrain and surroundings make it so.

Thus heavy snow often gathers beside deserted cities, and fierce winds often rise above sandy rivers. Those who can master themselves often come from among the common people living in humble huts; those who live long are often people who cultivate themselves by swallowing Qi and regulating their breath. Why is this so? Cold, desolate places easily gather wind and snow, while an impassioned heart often gathers the spirit of loyalty and righteousness. So, hard, twisted, compressed places form knotted growths like brocade; when oysters and clams are worn down and wounded, they nurture luminous pearls. A crow, when it takes flight, can soar among the blue clouds; an arrow, startled into flight, can pass over snow-covered mountains.

Duke Mu of Tai ordered a bow to be made, and it took three years to finish. He tested it by shooting an arrow, but it could not pierce even a single layer of armor. He then wanted to kill the craftsman who had made it. The craftsman’s daughter came before the duke and said, “My father labored for a full year to make this bow. I watched him gather wood on Chaoyang Mountain, join it with ox-hide glue, make the bowstring from elk sinew, and bind the arrows neatly in a bundle. It took him three years to complete the bow. Now Your Highness has shot it, and it cannot pierce even one layer of armor. Does my father truly deserve to die? I have heard that the proper way to shoot is to steady the bow with the left hand as though holding off a fierce tiger, and to hold the arrow with the right as though supporting a branch. When the left hand releases the arrow, the right hand must remain undisturbed. Your Highness does not know how to shoot. Why, then, would you kill my father?”

After hearing her, Duke Mu picked up the bow and shot toward the tiger enclosure. The arrow passed over the mountains and flew across the area around Pengcheng. Its force surpassed that of Shiliang, and even the feathers at its tail entered the target. Yet the bow’s full power had still not been brought forth.

All these things show that only through being honed can something reveal its precious brilliance, and only when stirred into action can it develop lofty force. A fierce gale can break trees; rushing water can sweep away stones. Wind is formless and water is soft, yet they can break sturdy wood and move heavy rocks—all through the force of their surging motion. Thus, those who live in comfort and have no hidden worries often think too little about the future; those who have never faced danger often lack grand ambitions.

If Su Qin had owned fields near the city walls, he would surely never have worn the seals of office of the six states. A man from Qin said, “If I had fifty mu of land beside the city, I would never wear the seals of office of the six states in my whole life.”

If Lord Faction-Monger Zhu (a political figure of the Han dynasty) had not been looked down on by his relatives and friends, he too would never have sought the feast served in five cauldrons. The commentary explains that “mied” means to look down on. Zhu was from the land of Chu, fond of study, and poor; his relatives and friends often mistreated him. Later, he became a high minister in the Han court, enjoyed the honors of a five-cauldron feast, and received a fief of three hundred households.

If Zhang Yi had not suffered humiliation in the hall, he would never have formed the ambition to enter Qin and seek fame and rank. If Fan Sui had not been disgraced in a latrine, he would never have harbored the wish to take revenge on Wei. Once inspired, Yu Yue studied the literary arts diligently and eventually became the teacher of King Wei of Zhou. Ban Chao, driven by indignation, took up the study of martial arts and eventually made his mark in the Western Regions.

Yu Yue came from a poor family and earned his living working for others. At thirty, he devoted himself to study. For fifteen years, he stayed awake when others rested and remained up when others slept. In time, his learning brought him understanding and distinction, and King Wei hired him as his teacher.

Look at these worthy men: each set his ambition while in hardship, and in the end made his name through adversity. A broad, level road is easy to travel, while a winding path that turns nine times over a solitary peak is hard to climb. Descending from a height is something even a worn-out horse can manage; ascending steep, rugged slopes calls for the skill of a flying squirrel. What is admirable is to overcome obstacles and reach the heights; what makes a person worthy is to advance through hardship. In ancient times, people of ambition found a way forward even when beset by difficulty, and pursued their aspirations even after setbacks. They had both talent and the good fortune to meet the right moment, and so were able to serve the world.

Chapter Fifty-Three: Cherishing Time

Place a lamp on its stand. The flame burning a moment ago is already no longer the flame of the next moment, though people cannot see the change. Hide a mountain in a marsh: the mountain’s shape before our eyes is already different from what it was yesterday, yet even the clever fail to notice. Why is this? Because the flame is constantly going out and being reborn, while the mountain is constantly shifting and changing.

Everything between Heaven and Earth is like this. The flame of one moment is no longer the flame of the next, though even the keen-eyed cannot tell; the mountain in the marsh keeps changing, yet even the clever find it hard to perceive. The Way of Heaven moves in cycles, and time flies like an arrow. Even if you bound the feet of a swift steed, you could not catch up with it. Human life is brief, like a spark struck from stone: it flashes and is gone. Only by cultivating virtue and leaving behind benevolence can one endure through the ages.

In ancient times, gentlemen who wished to put benevolence and righteousness into practice throughout the world raced against time. They would not begrudge a foot-long piece of fine jade, yet they treasured every inch of time. Thus Yu the Great, hurrying to make the most of his time, did not even turn back when his hat caught on a tree. Nan Rong, a seeker of the Way, continued his search for its teachings even after the heels of his feet were worn raw. Laozi’s disciples sought instruction in the Way from Lao Chi.

Zhongni (Confucius) was so busy rushing from place to place that he had no time even for smoke to blacken his kitchen chimney. Mo Di (Mozi) traveled everywhere, never sitting long enough to warm his mat. They all strove to put virtue into practice, save the people and rescue them from danger, accomplish great deeds, and leave models for others, so that their good names would be remembered for a hundred generations.

People today, when striving to advance, do not know how to yield. Their eyes see only illusory splendor; they sink into their desires and lose themselves in lavish music and dance, seeking only pleasure amid mountains and streams. When they withdraw from public life, they are no more capable of making a difference, achieving merit, or assisting an enlightened age. So they squander their years: while alive, they pass without a name; when dead, they become a handful of earth in a coffin. How are they any different from plants that grow of themselves and wither naturally?

When autumn comes, cold winds make the branches moan, and chilly dew changes the color of the leaves. The cicadas cling to the branches and cry out at length, their calls piercing with sorrow. The ancients believed that as autumn approached, cicadas sang mournfully, as though lamenting and giving voice to their grief.

Autumn is nearly over, and severe frost is drawing near. A person’s life, too, is nearing its end, leaving only sorrow to be entrusted to the willows. Now I am making my way toward the western peak, but my work in the Dao is unfinished. I can only sigh in melancholy in the shadowed depths of a secluded valley, unable to leave my name in this flourishing age. Thinking of this, how could I not grieve for what lies ahead? My thoughts are therefore bound up with the smoke rising from the pines.

Garden of Words, Chapter Fifty-Four

Loyalty and filial piety are the foremost foundations of all virtues. Without cultivating them, even if one practices other good deeds, it is like a storehouse piled high with jade fragments that cannot be carved into ceremonial jade tablets, or a basket full of silk that cannot be woven into fine brocade and sashes. What use is abundance if it cannot be put to purpose?

Sincerity and modest deference are virtues when they accord with principle and ritual propriety; deceit and self-praise run counter to virtue. If sincerity and modest deference violate ritual norms, they can turn into acts of disobedience. Conversely, deceit and self-praise, when they happen to accord with the Way, may become actions that are right and proper.

Zhi Gong testified against his own father, accusing him of stealing a sheep. Though his conduct seemed upright, it violated ritual propriety.

In Cangwu, a man married a beautiful woman, then gave her to his elder brother as a wife. This may have been an act of deference, but it was contrary to ritual norms.

Thus sincerity and deference can also violate the Way. By contrast, Xian Gao falsely claimed to be acting on his ruler’s orders when he deceived the Qin army, yet his action served justice. Yu the Great spoke openly and frankly, too, achieving what was right through an act that seemed to defy convention.

When herdsmen and horse keepers—people of low status—are likened to Jie and Zhou, the comparison expresses contempt. When kings and lords are likened to Boyi and Shuqi, it expresses admiration. Where benevolence and righteousness are present, even commoners matter more than anything; where they are absent, even the noble are unworthy of regard. Matters can be brought to completion through sincerity, and principles can be made clear through reason and feeling.

When the immortal maiden Die E saw the bright autumn moon, she knew that a widow was longing for her dead husband.

When the wind is heard in the woods, the people aboard the boat are seen to start in fright. Yang Qi (the warm breath that nourishes all things) governs life and is welcomed by all things; Yin Qi (the cold breath that withers and destroys all things) governs death and is feared by all things. Thus, spring flowers turn toward the sun as if smiling, while autumn leaves, touched by cold dew, seem to weep.

Those skilled at forming relationships do not let their feelings change with meeting or parting, nor their affection change with life or death. Whether they have been together to the very end or have only just met, they remain constant, like the sun and moon. The sun is equally bright at sunrise and sunset; whether the moon is full or waning, its nature remains unchanged. The Way of Heaven shows no partiality between life and death, and people should not give way to resentment because of their own feelings. So when spring is warm and flowers and trees flourish, there is no need to worry about their fading; when autumn is bleak and plants wither, there is no need to resent it either. Flourishing and fading each have their appointed course, just as hardship and good fortune each have their season. Though spring grass grows lush, it still draws out fresh green shoots with the help of the morning dew; though autumn leaves are fragile, a passing breeze is enough to send them fluttering down.

All things grow soft in warmth and harden in cold. Thus, an animal’s horn can bend in spring, branches can be knotted in summer, autumn dew can congeal, and winter ice can be broken. People all favor youth and dislike old age; they value success and look down on hardship. So they cherish the brilliance of pearls and jade, yet burn away withered ashes, not realizing that decay comes from flourishing, and flourishing in the end returns to decay. When mountains contain jade, people dig them open; when rivers hold pearls, people drain their waters to sift them out. When leopards bear beautiful markings, people strip off their skins. And when people gather wisdom, they can easily attract envy.

Wisdom can recognize other people but cannot understand itself; numinous power can protect all things but cannot protect itself. Thus, the spirit tortoise is burned for divination because of its spiritual insight, and the numinous snake is exposed to the sun because of its extraordinary powers. Who can understand that not displaying wisdom is true wisdom, and not displaying numinous power is true numinous power?

Remarkable skill must make use of tools, but tools themselves do not produce skill. Fine workmanship depends on implements, but the implements themselves cannot bring it about. Without a bow and arrows, Hou Yi, the legendary archer, could not hit a tiny target; yet the true ability to hit the mark does not lie in the bow and arrows. Without an axe and an adze, a carpenter cannot cut and shape well; yet the true ability to cut and shape does not lie in the axe and adze.

Painting serves to depict forms, so it must begin with a plain foundation before embellishment is applied. Speech serves to express feeling and intention, so it must begin with genuine substance before attention is given to eloquence. Without a genuine foundation, embellishment alone cannot make a painting resemble its subject; without genuine substance, fine words alone cannot express what one means. People use red, powder, and dark pigments to adorn their faces, hoping to look beautiful, yet few are truly pleasing to the eye. They pluck the strings in intricate, elaborate performances, hoping to stir sorrow, yet few truly move the heart, because what lies within is not good enough. When the foundation is poor, lavish decoration cannot make it shine; when the melody is out of tune, playing quickly cannot make it plaintive. What is in the heart appears in the expression of the face, and what is felt within is revealed in the voice. So a person who forces an appearance of fear is not happy, even while smiling; and one who forces tears may look sorrowful without truly grieving.

Hearing a sound one dislikes is worse than not hearing it at all; seeing a sight one dislikes is worse than not seeing it. So when thunder crashes, people cover their ears; when lightning flashes, they shield their eyes.

Acts of benevolence and righteousness often do not serve the pursuit of profit, while those who pursue profit alone find it hard to act with benevolence and righteousness. Thus, grain merchants hope for a poor harvest, and medicine sellers hope people will fall ill. All things value whatever benefits them, so even the dogs of Jie and Zhou bark at Yao. The followers of Robber Zhi consider him virtuous and look down on Confucius. When fate goes against them, people blame Heaven; when they suffer humiliation, they resent others. It is like being burned by fire and resenting Suiren, or falling into a well and blaming Boyi.

If one shows no kindness in ordinary times and thinks of doing so only when danger strikes, or takes no precautions until trouble has already arisen, it is like digging a well only when thirsty or planting grain only when hungry. Even if one rushes to do it, it will be too late. Gong Yixiu was fond of eating fish, …

Gongyi, a native of Chu, was by nature fond of eating fish.

Qu Dao especially loved eating water caltrops. Though water caltrops are not especially delicious, everyone thinks they taste good; in this, his palate matched that of the people. King Wen loved eating bile, and Zengzi once swore that he loved eating sour jujubes. Bile is bitter and sour jujubes are sour, yet both men found them palatable; in this, their tastes differed from those of the people. Deer resemble horses and run even faster than horses; jackals resemble dogs and are more robust than dogs. Yet a state may own a fine horse worth a thousand gold pieces, but it will not own a deer of equal value. People may keep a dog worth a thousand gold pieces, but they will not keep a jackal, because dogs and horses are useful, while jackals and deer are not.

The Nine Schools, Chapter 55

The Daoist school, which takes the Dao as its foundation, includes figures such as Lao Dan, Guan Yin, Pang Juan, and Zhuang Zhou. It takes emptiness as its basis, stillness and purity as its inner rule, humility as its virtue, and gentleness and weakness as its mode of conduct. It rests in Wuwei (non-action), does not act with deliberate intent, and teaches without words. It brings the myriad things of Heaven and Earth to completion without displaying its achievements, and nurtures all things without claiming credit. But its more superficial followers utterly abandon loyalty and filial piety, reject benevolence and righteousness, and speak only of clarity and emptiness, hoping to govern the state by these alone.

The Confucian school, which takes Confucian learning as its guiding principle, includes figures such as Yan Ying, Zisi, Meng Ke, and Xun Qing. It follows the patterns of Yin-Yang, clarifies the foundations of instruction, devotes itself to the Six Arts—ritual, music, archery, charioteering, writing, and mathematics—and esteems the Five Constant Virtues: benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness. It favors elaborate funerals and formal dress, values music, and believes in Heaven’s Mandate. It traces the traditions of Yao and Shun, takes the institutions of Kings Wen and Wu as its model, and honors Confucius as its founding teacher in order to make the Dao of Confucianism clear. But its more superficial followers often make their literary embellishments so elaborate that no one can fully grasp them.

Notable representatives of the Yin-Yang school included Zi Wei, Zou Yan, Sang Qiu, and Nan Gong. They revered the Way of Heaven, observed the sun, moon, and stars, and arranged agricultural work according to the seasons. They studied the movements of the heavenly bodies, followed the changes of the four seasons, understood the properties of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), and knew the prevailing winds in the eight directions. They used this knowledge to bring stability to people’s lives and assist in governing. But a shallow branch of the school clung to taboos and became absorbed in divination and prognostication.

Notable representatives of the School of Names included Song Xing, a prince of Qin, Yin Wen, Hui Shi, and Gongsun Long. They advocated clarifying names and social distinctions, believing that when these were not properly established, speech would be disordered. They therefore sought to define rank and set distinctions straight. They promoted equality and valued frugality, opposed attacks on other states, and called for an end to warfare. Tradition says that they devised the Huashan cap as a symbol of an equal system, and used tolerant, inclusive arguments to express the differences between things. But a shallow branch of the school abandoned fundamentals to pursue minor details, relished dissecting names and principles, and sought only clever turns of phrase.

Notable representatives of the Legalist school included Shen Dao, Li Kui, Han Fei, and Shang Yang. They emphasized making punishments clear and regulations orderly. They guided people toward good conduct and used penalties to deter wrongdoing, so that people would obey the law; they regarded this as the foundation of governance. But a shallow branch of the school weakened benevolence and righteousness and relied solely on penal law, making customs harsh and enforcement severe and lacking in compassion.

Notable representatives of the Mohist school included Yin Yi, Mo Di, Qin Guli, and Hu Fei. They valued frugality, treated others humbly, cared for all people, and respected the worthy. They honored spirits and deities, opposed fatalism, advocated simple burials and brief mourning, and rejected unjustified anger that could harm the state. But a shallow branch of the school advanced overly abstract doctrines, while its demands for frugality were difficult to follow.

The School of Diplomacy and Strategy included figures such as Liezi, Su Qin, and Zhang Yi. They excelled at military affairs and strategy, with the original aim of advancing benevolence and righteousness, bringing the two sides to understand one another, and removing the calamities of war. They accepted the commands of rulers without clinging to their literal wording, adapting their actions to the circumstances. They supported those in danger and rescued declining states, turning calamity into good fortune. Yet shallow thinkers sought only empty display and deceit, abandoning loyalty and trustworthiness.

The Eclectic School included figures such as Kong Jia, Wei Liao, Shi Xiao, and Huai Yi. They understood the theories of Yin-Yang, took morality as their foundation, and drew on both Confucian and Mohist teachings. They brought together the views of the School of Names and the Legalists, adopted the strategies of the School of Diplomacy and Strategy, and incorporated the ways of farming. They could reason by analogy and select what they needed without adhering to any single school. Yet shallow thinkers let their teachings spread into disorder without limit, lacking a clear foundation in their hearts.

The Agricultural School included figures such as Shennong, the Old Man of the Fields, the Zai clan, and Fan Shengzhi. Their teaching focused on farming: expanding cultivated land and sowing the grains so that the state’s granaries would be full and households would have reserves. When granaries are full, ritual and righteousness have a foundation on which to grow. Yet shallow advocates of this school would have rulers and common people working together in the fields, erasing distinctions of rank and disrupting the order between ruler and minister.

Considering these nine schools of thought, the major schools of antiquity, we find that although their principles vary in depth, their writing in detail, and their positions sometimes differ, each sets out subtle truths, and all address the art of governance. Their methods are not the same, yet their ultimate aims do not differ. It is like the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), which both overcome and generate one another; or the forces of the four seasons, which oppose one another yet together form the year. The Zi and Mian rivers rise from different sources but both eventually flow into the sea. The notes gong and shang and the others differ, yet joined together they make music. Boyi and Liuxia Hui held to different principles, yet both are regarded as worthy. Their conduct differed, yet both came close to benevolence.

The Daoist school takes the mysterious transformations of nature as its foundation; the Confucian school makes moral conduct and education its aim. Among the nine schools, these two forms of teaching are the most important. Daoists advocate governing the world through Wuwei (non-action); Confucians teach ordinary people through the Six Arts—ritual, music, archery, charioteering, writing, and mathematics. Wuwei takes stillness, quiet, and emptiness as its foundation, while the Six Arts take ritual and music as their standards.

If teachings suited to an age of great unity are put into practice today, perversity and deceit will take root. If rule through Wuwei is applied to the age of Kings Cheng and Kang of Zhou, often regarded as a time of peace and prosperity, disorder and rivalry will instead arise. Why is this so? Because ages differ in the purity or decline of their customs, and teachings and social norms must change accordingly. The circumstances of past and present are not the same, so laws and instruction must also differ.

From this we can see that Confucian teaching, though it does not seek ultimate truth, can guide people in the world. Daoist teaching, though it fully understands the principles of things, cannot remedy society’s ills if it runs counter to ritual. Therefore, those worthy people who govern the world should put ritual teaching first; scholars who wish to withdraw from public life should make Wuwei their priority. In this way, both paths can be fulfilled, and each person’s integrity and reputation can be preserved.

End of Volume Ten of Liuzi.

[Note] According to this note, Su Qin saw his brothers change from arrogance toward him to respectful deference and sighed: “When a person is wealthy and honored, his relatives stand in awe of him; when he is poor and lowly, his relatives look down on him. If I had two qing of land on the outskirts of Luoyang, how could I have worn the seals of office as chancellor of the six states?”

Note 2 in this book reads: “Yan lived in poverty and, while traveling in the state of Qi, was once rejected by relatives and friends. Later, when he became Qi’s prime minister, he displayed the Nine Tripods and dined in lavish style, with bells and cauldrons.”

Note 3: The Wenyuange edition reads “Qi” instead of “Ju.”

Note 4: The Wenyuange edition reads “Dao before Ru” instead of “Ru before Dao.”

Note 5: The Wenyuange edition adds the two characters “Zhai Xiong” before “Lao Dan.”

Note 6: The original text has “Pian”; here it has been changed to “Yan” in accordance with the Wenyuange edition.

Note 7: The original text has “Jie”; here it has been changed to “Long” in accordance with the Wenyuange edition. The two characters “Zhai Xiong” also appear in the Wenyuange edition.

Note 8: The Wenyuange edition reads “Tong” instead of “Ben.”