《太平两同书》

The upper volume of the Taiping Liangtong Shu (Book of Great Peace on the Sameness of Opposites) is divided into five essays: the first discusses nobility and baseness, the second strength and weakness, the third decrease and increase, the fourth respect and contempt, and the fifth generosity and meanness. The lower volume is divided into five essays: the sixth discusses order and disorder, the seventh gain and loss, the eighth the genuine and the false, the ninth sameness and difference, and the tenth love and hatred.

Upper volume, first essay: Nobility and Baseness.

All things are generated and transformed from a single Qi (vital energy), and so Yang is regarded as noble while Yin is regarded as lowly. After the Three Powers—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—were set apart, Heaven stood above and Earth below. The tortoise and the dragon are the foremost among creatures of scale and shell; the qilin and the phoenix are the outstanding among birds and beasts. Gold and jade are the treasures among earth and stone; the lingzhi and the pine are the exceptional among grasses and trees. These distinctions of nobility and lowliness are already manifest in nature itself. Tortoises and dragons possess numinous qualities; the qilin and the phoenix have a benevolent character; gold and jade are clear, luminous, and richly lustrous; the lingzhi and the pine are steadfast and gracefully fine. Their inborn natures differ, and for this reason they are prized by the myriad things.

Yet among the myriad things, the human being is the most noble. If people cannot govern themselves, they must have someone to honor. They honor those of clear insight and sagely De (Virtue/Power) because such persons have ability and can stand above the countless multitude. Thus, whomever the world regards as worthy and capable, it honors as ruler; those whose talents do not suit the times remain among the common people. But one who occupies the ruler’s place, though the station is exalted and the power great, cannot be counted truly noble if there is no De worthy of praise. One who stands among the common people, though poor and weak, cannot on that account be counted base if there is a commendable adherence to the Dao (the Way) and to righteousness.

Why is this so? In former times King Zhou of Yin occupied the sovereign throne, while Kong Qiu (Confucius) was a minister rejected in the state of Lu. Duke Jing of Qi possessed the wealth of a thousand chariots, while Boyi lived in seclusion on Mount Shouyang, enduring hunger in order to keep his integrity. The height or lowness of their stations, and whether their circumstances were eminent or frustrated, of course differed greatly. Yet rulers of later ages all admired the conduct of Kong Qiu and Boyi, and even a child three feet tall was ashamed to hear the names of King Zhou and Duke Jing of Qi. Nobility and baseness, therefore, cannot be judged solely by a person’s success or disappointment.

A ruler is respected because of De. Without De, how does a ruler differ from the rest of the myriad things? A worthy and enlightened ruler is therefore diligent in planning the affairs of government, cares whether the people have food and clothing, toils again and again without growing slack, and is glad to hear remonstrance. These practices have their reasons. In ancient times the Yellow Emperor, Xuanyuan, went to Mount Kongtong to seek instruction from Guangchengzi. Emperor Yao likewise went to the banks of the Ying River to visit the recluse Xu You and, because Xu You was unwilling to accept the imperial throne, yielded it. If even a hermit can move the Son of Heaven to set aside an exalted station, invite him with courtesy, and yield in humility, then the Son of Heaven, who bears a profound responsibility, ought all the more not to be lightly regarded by the people. What one should fear is not the lack of station, but the failure to cultivate De. One need not worry over a lowly status; one should worry that one’s hold on the Dao and on righteousness is not firm enough. The Yijing (Classic of Changes) says: “What the sage holds most precious is position.” How is position maintained? By benevolent De. Without benevolent De, how can it be maintained?

The rulers of antiquity were therefore diligent day and night and vigilant at every moment, not merely to win a reputation, but because they feared losing the position prized by the sage and bringing disgrace upon the blessings left by the former kings. Nobility is a glory; one without Dao and De cannot possess it for long. Baseness is a humiliation; even with strength, one may not be able to escape it. If one attends only to cultivating De and does not deliberately pursue nobility, nobility may instead arrive of itself. If one lacks benevolent De and wishes to cast off lowliness, lowliness may not depart.

In former times Shun lived in poverty and obscurity, yet he founded an imperial inheritance and in the end left a fair name by yielding the throne. Jie of Xia held royal power in his own hands, and his might and prestige were resplendent, yet he did not win the support of the people and in the end was driven into exile. Gugong Danfu moved his residence to avoid the incursions of the Rong and the Di; he did not do so in order to seek nobility, yet later the settlement of Zhou arose in the region of Mount Qi. Huhai, the Second Emperor of Qin, mocked Yao and Yu for the simplicity of their lives; he was not willing to accept a base lot, yet he soon met ruin, and the lands of Qin were partitioned.

Shun’s station was lowly, yet he did not buy people’s hearts with wealth. Jie of Xia, though powerful, was not without arms for defense. Gugong Danfu accomplished his work not by forcibly dominating the state through his own strength alone. Huhai’s downfall did not come because he willingly placed himself on equal footing with the common people. The noble may grow ever more lowly, and the lowly may grow ever more noble. Those who deliberately pursue nobility do not necessarily obtain it, while those who obtain nobility have often not deliberately pursued it. Is Heaven partial to anyone? It is only that Heaven protects those who possess De. Laozi said, “The Dao is revered and De is prized.” What he spoke of is precisely this principle.

What is called strength is not merely being strong in oneself; one must also rely on the weak to bring that strength to completion. What is called weakness is not a matter of simply displaying weakness, but of drawing on the strong in order to hold the weak in check. Thus the weak are constrained by the strong, and the strong are in turn honored by the weak. High and low hold one another in check. This is the natural order of things.

But is the “strength” spoken of here a matter of a massive frame and fierce physical power? Is what is called “weakness” mere timidity and cowardice? The decisive point lies in whether one possesses De (Virtue/Power), not in the greatness or smallness of one’s strength. Metal is the hardest thing under Heaven, yet it cannot bear being broken; once broken, it cannot be joined again. Water is the softest thing under Heaven, yet it cannot be cut apart by a blade. Thus the pliancy of water can instead display firmness, while metal, though hard, is still not without its points of fragility.

Yan Ying was short of stature, yet he became prime minister of Qi. Gan Luo was still young, yet he became an able minister of Qin. Qiaoru was tall and large, yet a man of Lu pierced his throat. Changwan was a mighty warrior, yet he was killed by Hua Yuan of Song. Yan Ying did not reach the height of an ordinary person, and Gan Luo had not yet come of age, whereas Qiaoru was tall enough to drive a chariot and Changwan was strong enough to tear leather. Yet Qiaoru and Changwan lacked sufficient wisdom and could not preserve themselves, while Yan Ying and Gan Luo possessed strategic insight and were able to influence an entire state. Does this not show that De and physical force are different things, and that true strength and weakness therefore differ as well?

The Classic of Changes (Yijing) says that the Qian hexagram is firm and vigorous without cease; if it is carried to the extreme, there will in the end be the regret of arrogant excess. The Modesty hexagram stays below and keeps to a low place, yet it can accomplish a bright and honored undertaking. The difference lies precisely here. The De spoken of here is benevolence; what is called force is violence and armed might. If one treats others with benevolence, even Heaven and Earth will not oppose one, and ghosts and spirits will come to offer protection—how much more so the people close at hand? If one acts by violence, one’s kindred will grow disaffected, one’s own family will come to loathe one, and those from afar will be still less willing to give their allegiance.

Therefore De is what the people rely upon, while armed force is something that only a single person can depend on. Relying only on one’s own strength makes it difficult to become truly powerful; only by winning the support of the broad multitude of the people does one avoid falling into weakness. Thus King Zhou of Shang could draw an iron bow, yet all under Heaven feared him as they fear tigers and wolves. Emperor Yao was so frail that he seemed scarcely able to bear his own clothes, yet all under Heaven drew near to him as children draw near to their parents. If people fear tigers and wolves, can one therefore say that tigers and wolves are stronger than human beings? If children draw near to their parents, can one say that parents are weaker than their children? From this, the principle of strength and weakness becomes very clear.

The worthy and enlightened rulers of antiquity governed all under Heaven by Dao (the Way) and De. They understood that the hearts of the many cannot be controlled by armed force, and that lofty renown cannot be established by violence. They therefore cultivated De and governed their subjects with gentleness and benevolence. Thus, without many words, trust and harmony could be widely established; even as they sat calmly at ease, moral teaching could be carried into practice. In the end, distant regions gave their sincere allegiance, and people of foreign lands came, by stages and by roundabout ways, to present themselves at court. What was achieved was surely more than the submission of a single state and the devoted support of its people.

Alas, the tyrants of antiquity were arrogant and cruel. In governing all under Heaven they cast De aside and relied on armed force, making demands only of others while placing no restraint upon themselves. Their bodies were strong and robust, and they could even lift great objects, yet they could not control their own desires. Their abilities were outstanding, yet they could not preserve their own mind and nature. In the end they brought their states to ruin, left their ancestral temples without a master of the sacrifices, and were mocked by later ages forever. Was this merely that they happened, at the time, to occupy a position of weakness? It is truly lamentable.

Laozi said, “To surpass others is called having force; to be able to overcome oneself is called being strong.” What he spoke of is precisely this principle.

The people of the realm depend on a single person to govern them, and that one person in turn depends on the people living in peace and security. The people are thus like the feet of the realm, and the ruler like its head. Though the people are numerous, they may still suffer the havoc of war and hardship; though the ruler’s station is lofty, he may still be banished or put to death. This is not because the people have gone wrong. The root of the trouble lies with the ruler.

When water flows, duckweed drifts along with it; when the wind passes, the grass bends and falls. In the age of Tang Yao and Yu Shun, every household among the people might receive commendation; under the reigns of Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang, every household might meet with slaughter. Were the people wiser in the former age and more foolish in the latter? Or was high antiquity easy to govern and later times hard to govern? The crux is whether the ruler’s government gains or loses. Nothing benefits the realm more than a ruler’s thrift, and nothing harms it more than a ruler’s extravagance. Thrift and extravagance are precisely the root of success and failure in governing.

The sun and moon are the brightest things under heaven, yet there are still places their light does not reach. If the ruler is thrifty, the business of government can be simple and little burdensome, and the people benefit as a result; such benefit even surpasses the brightness of sun and moon. Wolves and jackals are the most harmful creatures under heaven, yet there are times when they do not injure anyone. If the ruler is extravagant, affairs throughout the realm grow tangled and the people suffer constant disturbance; such harm runs even deeper than that of wolves and jackals.

The sage rulers of antiquity therefore devoted themselves to cultivating a thrifty De (Virtue). They lived in plain dwellings, wore coarse cloth and ordinary furs, set aside rare treasures and useless objects, lightened taxes, and reduced corvée. They diminished their own pleasures and increased the people’s livelihood and their very lives, so that all under heaven rejoiced and each rested content in his way of living. The tyrants of antiquity, by contrast, gave themselves wholly to extravagance and license. They built splendid terraces, pavilions, and gardens, wore brocade and ate fine food, sought out rare treasures, and fashioned useless objects, while they made taxes heavier and levies of labor more frequent. They gratified their private tastes yet injured the lives of the myriad people, plunging the realm into hardship until the people no longer feared death. Once they do not fear death, how should they fear rising in disorder? The people wish to live and pass their days in peace; how could they fail to love stability?

Only when the people are secure can the ruler be secure; when the people fall into disorder, the ruler too suffers disorder. If a ruler wants only his own safety and pays no heed to whether the people are at ease, and fears only that the people will rebel without considering that he himself will meet disaster because of it, this cannot be called wisdom.

If one cuts open a person’s belly in order to satisfy hunger, one cannot call this a pleasure of the mouth and tongue. If one lets the heels freeze and the heart within start with fear, one cannot call this comfort for the heart. The heart and the mouth can be preserved only because the feet and the belly can rest secure. Once the belly is being cut open, how is injury to the mouth any different? Once the heels are freezing, how is cold in the heart any different? The ruler is honored as supreme only because the people of the realm uphold him together. If all the people benefit, with whom can the ruler share in loss? If all the people suffer loss, with whom can the ruler share in gain?

When the ruler sacrifices his own advantage in order to benefit the people, the people, once they have benefited, in turn come to the ruler’s aid. Yao and Shun thereby became the most sagely of rulers and were able to enjoy long life in peace. When the ruler thinks only of increasing his own gain and harms the people, the people, once they have been harmed, in turn bring harm upon the ruler. Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang thereby fell into folly and tyranny and in the end were slain or driven into exile. Seen in this light, is willingly accepting loss to oneself not the way to preserve oneself? Is seeking only one’s own advantage not the way to bring harm upon oneself? The principle of gain and loss is clear from the outset.

Alas, the lives of the people are what matter most; a ruler’s private tastes and pleasures are no urgent concern. If the ruler sets aside enjoyments he does not need in order to preserve the people’s all-important lives, spreads grace widely, and lets the myriad things and the people grow and flourish, then even while he occupies a station as secure as the Southern Marchmount, he can, like the Northern Asterism, hold the center and keep the host of stars each in its place. Under all of heaven, who would come to harm such a ruler?

If the ruler’s appetites are never satisfied and his greed knows no end; if he lets men of learning go hungry while feeding leftover grain and meat to dogs and horses; if the people’s clothes do not cover their bodies while brocade and embroidery adorn palaces, chambers, and towers; and if he lets loyal and upright men die in vain, abandoning what benefits the realm and choosing the path that invites disaster—then who, in any quarter of the realm, will come to his aid? Thorns will overgrow the roads, and great whales will swim in boiling seas. Such is the realm when tyranny plunges it into peril and disorder.

Thus the Laozi says, “The Dao (the Way) of Heaven is to diminish what has a surplus and to supplement what is insufficient.” This is precisely the principle at issue.

In remote antiquity, the human heart still lay in an unopened state of primordial chaos, scarcely different from grass and trees, and what people did was much like the behavior of birds and beasts. Later, the sages guided people with rites and music and instructed them through humaneness and righteousness, and only then did the institutions distinguishing ruler from minister, and the noble from the humble, gradually become clear and distinct.

What matters most in ritual propriety is respect, while the fault most readily produced is arrogance. Thus, if one serves Heaven with reverence, the spirits will descend; if one governs the state in a spirit of respect, the people will live in harmony. If one slights Heaven, the spirits will no longer grant their protection; if one governs the state with contempt, the people will fall into peril. If those of lower station do not respect those above them, they cannot serve their ruler with wholehearted devotion; if those of higher station do not respect those below them, they likewise cannot properly lead their ministers and subordinates.

The Zhouyi (Book of Changes) uses the image of “a mountain within the earth” to clarify the principle of humility and respect for others. Laozi likens the rivers and seas, which lie below all other waters, to the “king of the valleys,” who dwells in a low place and receives every stream. The poem “Xiangshu” in the Shijing (Classic of Poetry) satirizes those who do not observe the rites, and the ancients also recorded the tale of a bird that could speak yet did not understand ritual propriety. All these examples show that the consequences of respect and of contempt—one good, one evil—are utterly different.

Therefore, when an enlightened ruler governs the world, he erects an altar to confer military command upon his generals, sets out an empty mat to invite worthy scholars, prepares gifts before recluses of the mountains and forests, and sends comfortable carriages into the lanes and alleys to welcome them. Thereupon, men of true ability are willing to take their places, worthy scholars come one after another to pay court, and the people of the world praise the ruler and willingly accept his moral instruction. A benighted ruler, by contrast, receives scholars in disheveled cap and robe and holds court with his hair unbound; he regards worthy and good men as no better than grass and trees, and treats the common people as pigs and dogs. Thereupon, worthy scholars hide away in the valleys like white horses and soar far off like wild geese; the people of the world detest him and would rather flee than endure his humiliation.

To respect others does not mean to belittle oneself; it is done in order to employ them. To treat others with contempt does not make oneself more exalted; it only invites their resentment. When Marquis Wen of Wei heard that Duan Ganmu (a worthy of the state of Wei) excelled in virtue and ability, he would lean upon the crossbar at the front of his carriage in salute whenever he passed Duan’s residence. King Zhao of Yan built guest lodges in order to attract men of worth. Talent thereupon gathered, and fine horses too found a place of belonging—such was the result of respecting the worthy. When Duke Huan of Qi grew proud and self-satisfied at the covenant assembly of Kuiqiu, and when Emperor Gaozu of Han slighted the local scholars as he passed through the region of Zhao, the feudal lords were unwilling to attach themselves in allegiance, and ministers attacked and denounced one another—such was the result of contempt.

To honor others is, on the surface, to honor someone else, yet in fact it is also to respect oneself. To slight others is, on the surface, to look down on someone else, yet in fact it is also to cheapen oneself. Respect a single person, and many hearts will be gladly won over; slight a single person, and many hearts will grow resentful. Everyone wishes to obtain the benefits of respecting the worthy, yet is unwilling to practice the conduct of respecting the worthy; everyone knows that contempt for others invites resentment, yet is unwilling to abandon contemptuous behavior. This is like traveling south while hoping to reach the state of Yan, or traveling north while hoping to reach the state of Yue: one can never arrive.

The ruler is the model for all the people of the world. His actions are written into the policies of the state, and his words are recorded by the court historians. When he performs a single good deed, it is like colored clouds casting forth their radiance, and all under Heaven rejoice and celebrate; when he commits a single evil deed, it is like the morning sun suffering an eclipse, and all under Heaven sigh with regret. Therefore a ruler cannot conduct himself as an ordinary commoner might, heedless of respect and contempt; he must treat these matters with care.

Someone asked Tian Zifang, “The rich and noble may be arrogant—may the poor and humble be arrogant as well?” Tian Zifang replied, “If a feudal lord treats others with arrogance, he will lose his state; if a grand officer treats others with arrogance, he will lose his family. As for the poor and humble, if their conduct does not accord with what is right and their words do not accord with what is proper, people simply leave them. To such persons, even the lands of Chu and Yue are no more than a worn-out shoe to be cast aside; they may depart at any moment. The gravity of the two cases is not the same, and they cannot be placed on a par.” When tigers and leopards fall into a ravine, they are smashed to pieces; when ants are carried off by the wind, they suffer not the slightest harm. This shows precisely that people of different station and circumstance do not bear the same consequences.

The Duke of Zhou was the son of King Wen, yet he was diligent in receiving worthy scholars—so busy that, in the course of a single meal, he several times spat out the food in his mouth, and, while washing his hair, several times clutched his wet locks in order to go and greet a guest. Yan Ying’s charioteer, though only a servant, was self-satisfied and full of pride. Does this not show that the gentleman and the petty person differ in the way they treat others, and that respect and contempt each follow a path of their own?

The inchworm, if it wishes to extend its body, must first bend; the bird of prey, when it prepares to strike, must first lower itself. Only when those of high station treat those of lower station with humility can they win people’s hearts on a broad scale. Thus Laozi said, “Place yourself behind, and you will instead come to stand in front.” This is precisely the principle he meant.

The Great Dao (the Way) values life above all else, and nothing is more precious than a person’s life. The weight of one’s two arms therefore surpasses the four seas, and the worth of the myriad things cannot compare with a single human body. A person’s spirit (Shen) is endowed by Heaven and Earth, while the body takes form through one’s parents; yet if one is to accord with the principle given at birth, one must still rely on care after birth.

The pine by nature has a character that towers into the clouds. If its roots are choked with dung and soil and it is watered with brine, in less than a day it will appear withered. Ice and snow by nature cannot long withstand warmth. If they are stored in a cool well and sheltered among deep, secluded peaks, they will not easily melt even at the height of summer. It is not that the pine’s nature lacks steadfastness, and yet it quickly withers and decays; it is not that ice and snow are by nature hard to melt, and yet they can be preserved for a long time. Is this arranged by the will of Heaven? In truth, it comes of a difference in the manner of care.

Human beings differ from the pine and from ice and snow; life stands in still greater need of proper care. If care goes awry, how can one last? If care is rightly directed, how should one fail to lengthen one’s years? Thus whether a lifespan is long or short depends on whether care is good or poor. What is lamentable is that food and drink, and desire between men and women, are intense human cravings. Everyone wishes to live in comfort, yet does not realize that certain ways of seeming to treat oneself generously will instead harm life. Everyone detests a straitened existence, yet does not realize that restraining desire—seeming to practice a measure of self-denial—may instead allow life to be nurtured all the better.

In former times Lord Xinling and Emperor Xiaohui gave themselves over to revelry lasting through the night, sank into wine and sensual pleasure, and let their desires run free. This was not to treat their own lives well; in the end they met an early death and were buried in the grave, so the harm may be called extreme. Master Lao and Lord Peng practiced the methods of prolonging life, observed the prohibitions of diet, and restrained mind and spirit. This looked like restraint, yet in the end they were able to preserve long life, and were even said to have ascended into the clouds. From this one can see that such a course was, on the contrary, to treat life well.

External things are originally the instruments by which life is nurtured; if used to excess, they also become the source of harm to life. Fire is suited to being fed with oil and fat, and trees are suited to being watered; yet if one pours the waters of great rivers and lakes upon a small pile of kindling, or adds a great quantity of oil to a single candle, one will instead bring them to ruin. A person’s life is indeed limited, while the heart of craving has no end. To pursue endless desire with a limited life—how can one avoid falling into distress? Thus the Classic of Changes teaches that food and drink should be kept in moderation, and the rites also carefully regulate relations between men and women. Both are well founded.

To occupy an emperor’s throne is the most exalted station in the world; to possess hundreds of millions of subjects is the richest condition in the world. Yet if one does not attend to nurturing life, one cannot even preserve the five viscera and the four limbs—how then can one possess wealth and rank beyond the body? To cast fine jade at a frog, or to shoot a sparrow with a luminous pearl, is to abandon what is precious in pursuit of what is base, and people regard such conduct as muddled. Now to hold lightly one’s life, the most exalted and weightiest of things, and instead to submit to craving—is this not muddled as well?

Soil can make a river turbid, but it cannot make the sea turbid; wind can blow down trees, but it cannot blow down a great mountain. Craving is enough to disorder the petty person, but not enough to shake the noble person. When Confucius (whose courtesy name was Zhongni) was thirsty and came upon the water of Robber Spring, he held to righteousness and would not drink; Zigong of Zheng, however, dipped a finger into the soup to taste it and took the occasion to demand the broth. Liu Xiahui spent a night in the same lodging as a woman and never lapsed into impropriety; Huafu of Song, by contrast, ran risks in order to seize a woman’s favors. The Duke of Zhou warned people not to abandon themselves to drink, while King Zhou of Yin lost his kingdom through drunkenness and the indulgence of desire. Lady Ban (a consort of Emperor Cheng of the Han), mindful of suspicion, refused to share a carriage with the emperor; Lady Jiang, however, gave free rein to lust and knew no shame. These examples show that holding to what is right and giving way to license are not the same, and that the nurturing of life likewise differs in being ample or meager.

When spirit is spent beyond measure, it is exhausted; when the body is toiled beyond measure, it grows weary. When spirit and body are both worn out, and one still hopes to attain long life, no such thing has ever been heard of. If a ruler can treasure spirit and primordial Qi (vital energy) within and lessen craving without, remember the harm of letting passion run unchecked, and follow the principle of nourishing body and mind, then the span of life can long be preserved and the ruler can continue as an enlightened sovereign. Would this not be excellent? Thus Laozi said, “Regard one’s own person lightly, and one can instead preserve it.” What he spoke of is precisely this.

In governing a state, and in whether the world is brought to peace or falls into disorder, the crux lies in two methods: civil governance and military preparedness. The sages of antiquity created writing and contracts in order to convey intentions hidden in the heart, and made bows and arrows in order to overawe those unwilling to submit. Both measures have existed from ancient times to the present. Civil governance can bring order about; military preparedness can put calamity down. Yet to practice civil governance is not necessarily to stop calamity, and to resort to armed force is not necessarily to make the state accord with right principle. Preventing calamity therefore depends on military preparedness, while guiding people toward order depends on civil governance. The two take turns in their work like hands and feet, and bear loads in alternation like boats and ships and like carriages and horses.

When Emperor Gaozu of Han presumed upon his own achievements, Lu Jia urged him to study civil governance; when the ruler of Lu went to a covenant assembly, Confucius asked him to make military preparations beforehand. Both courses were well founded. Civil governance guides the people by De (Virtue/Power). What is precious in De is sincerity within the heart, not embellishment on the surface. Military preparedness displays awe-inspiring might. What is precious in that might is preserving oneself, not flaunting strength and seeking fame. If one merely flaunts strength, then even if the state of Wu possesses a great many fine weapons, it only exposes the signs of its own defeat. If one merely prizes outward display, then even if everyone in Lu wears Confucian robes, this cannot save the state from decline.

The First Emperor of Qin built the Great Wall and continually launched wars, so that the people toiled all year long and could hardly bear it. In the end Chen She and others, taking advantage of the failings of the Qin, rose in revolt. This calamity arose from flaunting strength and seeking fame. Wang Mang built the Numinous Terrace and promoted rites and music, yet levied taxes at will, so that the people had no way to live. In the end Shenggong and others seized the chance to profit and overthrew his regime. This collapse began in empty show. The First Emperor governed the world by martial means, like a potter who, in making a vessel, seeks only to make it large, and does not know that walls too thin break all the more easily. Wang Mang governed the world by civil means, like a carpenter who, in paring timber, cares only to display his skill, and does not know that wood cut too fine snaps readily. Both wished to govern the world and in the end produced chaos, because they never grasped the root.

If civil governance is to let the people see clear norms, the essential point is that it be simple and easy to carry out. When government orders are simple, the people follow them readily, come to understand integrity and shame, and return to the proper Dao (the Way). If military preparedness is to let others know that one is on guard, the essential point is quiet self-possession. Only by remaining quiet can one preserve oneself, and one then regularly meets fatigue with ease. Those who can meet fatigue with ease win readily in battle; when the people know shame and hold to what is right, moral transformation is easily put into practice. When that transformation is carried out, the multitude lives in harmony; when war meets with success, bandits and raiders cease. Only then does one settle the world by Wuwei (non-action) and nourish the people with profound humaneness and De. This is the method by which an enlightened ruler achieves governance.

Neither the First Emperor of Qin nor Wang Mang sought order from the inner root; they pursued results on the outside. They did not settle human nature, but gave free rein to passion and desire. They disturbed the people with cumbersome institutions and afflicted the multitude with violent force, and so they could not truly govern the world well. Even so, civil governance and military preparedness themselves still have their harms. Boyi dug wells, and Suiren drilled wood to obtain fire; the benefits of water and fire have served later ages ever since. Yet Zhi Bo once used water to flood the walled cities of Zhao, and Dong Zhuo once used fire to burn the house of Han. Water and fire are beneficial, and they can also cause very great harm. Civil governance and military preparedness are useful means of governing a state, and those who steal states often borrow them to throw the world into disorder.

Zhang Na relied on his armies to divide up the territory of Qin, and Tian Chang usurped the state of Qi in the name of humaneness and righteousness. Thus, even where the Dao of governance is present, calamity may still arise; the crux lies in how the ruler keeps control. One who herds horses first removes what is harmful; one who drives sheep must, in good time, whip on the sheep that lag. If the lagging sheep are not driven forward, the flock will scatter; if the harm upon the horse is not removed, the horse will be injured. Lu failed to remove the harm of the three ministerial houses, and the state therefore turned away; Jin failed to restrain the six high ministers in time, and its territory was therefore partitioned. If a ruler cannot do these things, then even simple civil governance and quiet military preparedness will only foster calamity—how could they achieve order?

An enlightened person, therefore, cannot fail to understand civil governance and military preparedness; otherwise there is no way to govern banditry and disorder. Ministers likewise cannot fail to understand these two methods; otherwise there is no way to set treachery and wickedness right. Civil governance and military preparedness are not themselves partial; the trouble is that the ruler has lost the handle of authority by which they are controlled. Confucius said, “When the Dao prevails in the world, rites, music, and punitive expeditions are all decided by the Son of Heaven.” What he said is precisely this principle.

A fine horse can travel a long road by the strength of its four legs; the luan bird can fly to distant places by the working of its six wing feathers. Thus, when the sage governs the state and an enlightened ruler seizes the opportune moment, he too must employ serviceable men of talent, comparable to the qi and catalpa trees, and place them in the important offices that assist the ruler.

The strategic fastnesses of mountains and rivers can be seen, and the seasonal order of winter and summer can likewise be discerned; the human mind, however, lies hidden and is hard to fathom. The Uncrowned King (referring to Confucius) held that the human heart is difficult to gauge, and even Emperor Yao found it no easy matter to know people and to employ them. In appointing talent, one can hardly avoid both gains and losses.

The ruler is like a boat, and the ministers are like water. Water can bear a boat up, and it can also capsize it; ministers can assist the ruler, and they may also cast him into peril. Emperor Gaozu of Han employed three outstanding counselors and generals, and the Han thereby rose; the power of the Six Ministers of Jin grew overweening, and Jin in the end perished. Yue had Lord Taozhu (Fan Li) to assist it and was able to achieve hegemony; the power of the Tian clan flourished, and Qi moved toward decline and ruin. It was the same act of employing talent, yet the results were utterly different.

Human deceit has no fixed outward form, and loyalty and falsehood are not easy to tell apart. Some are respectful on the surface and negligent within; some speak of closeness yet act at odds with their words; some scorn integrity and prize greedy gain, while others hold to integrity in poverty and turn greedy once rich and honored; some, after committing a great fault, seek ways to reform, while others, once seated in high office, grow doubtful and fearful instead; some forget kindness at the sight of profit, and others incur enmity in the effort to escape punishment. Such cases are hard to determine beforehand; even divination and the ghosts and spirits cannot render a definite judgment for a person.

The powers and offices of the state are of the greatest weight, yet the human heart is difficult to know. If important posts are entrusted to people whose minds cannot be fathomed, without first distinguishing the genuine from the false, and one listens only to the praise and censure of others, then even a man of ability such as Huo Guang may accomplish his work because he is properly employed, while a man of unsound conduct such as Wang Mang may bring the state to ruin because he is improperly employed. Thus, among kinsmen there are the loyal and upright, and there are also the partial and deviant; among the consort clans there are the upright, and there are also those who harbor illicit designs; among meritorious ministers there are the loyal and compliant, and there are also the rebellious; and among old friends, too, some remain and some depart. If one selects people solely by their talent for handling case documents, one may encounter a deceiver like Zhang Tang; if one rewards people solely for eloquence in argument, one may also come to dislike a man like Zhufu Yan, whose conduct turns things upside down. Chen Ping was rich in stratagems and should not be entrusted alone with the whole of government; Han Xin’s ability was outstanding, yet one has reason to fear that he would be hard to restrain.

The realm is so vast that, without men of talent, one cannot govern it alone; yet once one has them, one fears that they will stir up disorder. This being so, why not employ their abilities and, at the same time, prevent them from causing disorder?

Hair grows on one’s own head, and still one must arrange it with a comb; nails grow on one’s own hands, and still they must be trimmed at regular intervals. If the nails are not trimmed, once they grow long they hinder movement; if the hair is not combed, in time it becomes tangled. Hair and nails alike belong to one’s own body and have in themselves neither mind nor awareness; left unmanaged, they still bring trouble. How much more is this true of ministers, who are not a part of the ruler, and whose minds may moreover change. Once judgment, decision, and power have been given over to ministers, one cannot fail to examine and restrain them continually.

To travel a long road one must rely on a fine horse; to govern the realm one must rely on worthy ministers. Yet even when a horse is docile, one cannot do without the reins; even when worthy ministers have been appointed, one cannot let go of one’s hold on power. In driving a horse, if the reins are drawn too tight, the horse takes fright and will not advance; if they are left too slack, the horse grows willful and lazy. To keep the horse from running unchecked and yet keep it moving steadily onward is something only a person skilled at driving horses can do.

The government of ministers is the same. If power is controlled too strictly, ministers become fearful and ill at ease; if it is controlled too loosely, ministers grow negligent and may even rebel. To be lenient without disorder, and strict while still putting people at ease, is a principle understood by the sagely and enlightened ruler. If, for fear that the horse will stray, one refuses to use a horse and goes on foot, the long road cannot be traveled; if, for fear that ministers will cause disorder, one refuses to use ministers and takes every affair upon oneself, the realm likewise cannot be governed. If one knows that a horse can be ridden yet does not hold the reins, one cannot stop it from going astray; if one knows that ministers can be employed yet does not keep the handles of power in one’s grasp, one cannot stop them from causing disorder either.

Thus, Xiang Yu’s refusal to employ Fan Zeng was like discarding the horse and walking the long road on foot; although Emperor Xian of Han had Cao Cao at his side, it was like riding a horse without reins. To act in this way and hope not to fail—how could that be possible? Confucius said, “Names and ritual vessels (the institutions and offices that symbolize status and power) must not be casually granted to others.” What he said is precisely this principle.

A ruler cannot govern a state well by himself alone; he must rely on the assistance of the worthy and capable. Human hearts and worldly affairs are likewise not easy to govern, and must be subjected to careful examination and appraisal. Only when petty men withdraw to the countryside and gentlemen remain at court can matters be considered properly arranged.

Yet good and evil are often interwoven, and right and wrong are easily confused. When a thing shows its form, a shadow follows; when the lips lose their cover, the teeth feel the cold. Wherever there is the genuine, the false is hard to avoid. Thus the emperors of successive ages have always governed with careful attention. But once those who are enfeoffed and rewarded are not truly outstanding, the ignorant and shallow grow resentful; and when the treacherous and fawning are punished and driven out, they in turn wrongly call their opponents worthy and good. This is precisely what grieves people of discernment.

The mountain parrot has nothing uncanny about it, yet those who buy it call it a phoenix. The wild qilin is an auspicious omen, yet those who harm it treat it as an ordinary creature. Although the qilin and the phoenix can be recognized from illustrated records, and the mountain parrot has no spiritual discernment, people still take the true for the false and the false for the true. How much more so, then, are thoughts of loyalty and rebellion, and temperaments of calm and restlessness, inherently difficult to tell apart.

Those who are dull yet composed are often regarded as upright; those who are clever yet unrestrained are often regarded as worthy. One who keeps himself pure may not be able to get along with the crowd, and one who dares to speak frankly and offend the ruler may be said not to understand how to discern the ruler’s disposition. A person’s true condition leaves no visible trace, and the thoughts of the heart are not something the ears and eyes can know directly. To keep silver and lead from ever mixing, and to make the tastes of the Zi and Sheng rivers utterly distinct, is extremely difficult; one who can truly do so is hardly met with once in ten thousand generations.

Thus history contains many cases in which loyal and worthy men were misjudged. The state of Wu employed Grand Steward Pi, and Wu Zixu was put to death because of it. The state of Lu kept Confucius at a distance and handed political power to the Ji clan. The state of Qin killed Bai Qi yet promoted the Marquis of Ying. The state of Zhao trusted Guo Kai and let him bring about the death of Li Mu. Bian He presented a precious jade and instead suffered punishment in Chu. Master Beiguo played the yu and blended into the orchestra, drawing a salary from Qi for nothing. Similar cases are too many to count. From this it can be seen that what is taken to be correct is not necessarily truly correct, and what is taken to be wrong is not necessarily false. Distinguishing the true from the false therefore has its proper method, and one must examine it with care.

One cannot conclude that a person is good merely because the multitude praises him, nor conclude that he is evil merely because the multitude maligns him. Those close to oneself are not necessarily worthy, and those kept at a distance are not necessarily base. How can this be shown? When Yao dealt with the flood, Gun was recommended by the multitude, yet he failed to control the waters. When the state of Wei attacked Zhongshan, Yue Yang was slighted by the multitude, yet in the end he took Zhongshan. Deng Tong once appeared to a Han emperor in a dream, yet he lacked the ability of Fu Yue. Qu Yuan was banished by the king of Chu, yet he bore no crime like that of Gonggong. This shows that the judgment of the multitude is not necessarily correct, and an individual’s own view is not necessarily reliable.

Therefore a wise ruler widely seeks the opinions of the ministers in office and also carefully reflects on his own thoughts. He first examines what is difficult, then deals with what is easy, and traces from obvious signs down to subtle details. In this way those who are employed prove worthy of their rewards, the guilty cannot escape responsibility, and affairs are handled fittingly.

Set a good horse running, and one can see whether it is a fine steed or a poor one, without relying on the recommendation of Sun Yang (a man skilled at judging horses). Put a blade to cutting, and one can see whether it is sharp or dull, without listening to the discourse of Feng Hu (a man skilled at appraising precious swords). For a person who is hard to judge, simply entrust him with actual tasks: the true and the false will reveal themselves, and the disputes of the world can be settled.

Thus, when the sage-kings of antiquity examined men of talent, they would send a man to serve far away and observe his loyalty and integrity; place him close at hand and examine his respectfulness and diligence; have him offer plans and strategies and learn of his insight and deliberation; test him with burdensome affairs and see his ability; and have him associate with different kinds of people and observe whether he was upright or self-indulgent. They would place profit in his hands and look closely at whether he was greedy or incorruptible; put him in hardship and see whether he could still hold to humaneness; and, when danger arose, examine whether he kept faith. They would also trace his conduct and probe his nature, listen to his words and discern his true intentions.

To do this is to employ to the full the method of the “Eight Tests” (bazheng) proposed by Lü Shang (Jiang Taigong), and to verify the standard of the “Nine Virtues” (jiude) set forth by Gao Yao. After such trials, even if many silk threads are dyed together, pure white jade cast into the mud will not change color; in autumn the yellow leaves fall in droves, yet the green pine stands alone in the cold frost. In this way pretenders are eliminated, and true talent can be recognized.

Confucius said, “When the multitude calls someone good, one must examine him carefully; when the multitude detests someone, one must also examine him carefully.” This is precisely the principle at issue.

When sounds are the same, they answer one another; when breaths are akin, they draw one another in. The tiger does not belong to the wind of the valley, yet when the tiger roars, the valley wind rises; the snake is not the mist of the mountains, yet when the snake stirs, the mountain mist ascends. This comes about because the underlying principles of things communicate with one another.

Things of different kinds, each belonging to a different group, may still share the same intent and make the same movements. Clams, according to legend, were transformed from sparrows, yet clams do not keep company with sparrows; mandarin ducks, according to legend, were transformed from rats, yet they do not mate with rats. This comes about because the underlying principles of things are distinct.

Fathers and sons, and brothers, are certainly close, yet their intentions are not necessarily the same; rulers and ministers, and friends, may seem distant in their relations, yet their intentions are not necessarily different. Gusou, the father of Shun, was foolish, yet Chonghua, that is, Shun, was sagely and wise; Robber Zhi was greedy, yet Liuxia Hui was incorruptible; Liu Ji, Liu Bang, Emperor Gaozu of Han, fell into desperate straits, and Ji Xin went to his death in his place; Botao starved to death, and Jiao Ai gave his life for him as well. Smoke and ash arise from the same source, yet one ascends and the other falls, each differently; glue and lacquer come from different origins, yet they can bond firmly together. From this it is clear that human feelings and innate dispositions are not alike, and sameness and difference cannot be reduced to a single rule.

The Classic of Changes (Yijing) says “fellowship with others at the gate,” meaning that one associates with people outside the gate; yet the nine in the third place of the Tongren hexagram also says that someone lies in ambush amid the thick grass. From this it can be seen that even when things appear the same on the surface, difference may be hidden within. Thus some people agree outwardly while differing within; some appear different on the outside yet have no divergence within; some begin the same and later part ways; some begin at odds and in the end grow close and harmonious. There are also cases in which others do not identify with me, yet I am of one mind with them, and cases in which others do not reject me, yet I differ from them in view.

How are these situations to be understood? Chen Ping outwardly complied with Empress Lü, yet inwardly remained loyal to the house of Liu; Cheng Ying, a figure in the story of the Orphan of Zhao, outwardly opposed Sun Jiu, yet inwardly protected the surviving orphan of the Zhao clan. Zhang Er and Chen Yu at first bound themselves in a friendship of life and death, yet in the end turned against each other as enemies; Guan Zhong, whose name was Yiwu, and Prince Xiaobai, later Duke Huan of Qi, at first bore the grievance of the arrow that struck the belt hook, yet later worked together as intimately as fish and water. The Tian clan harbored a deceitful heart toward the ruler of Qi, yet the ruler of Qi trusted them all the more; Yafu, the honorific by which Xiang Yu addressed Fan Zeng, gave Xiang Yu the whole of his loyalty, yet Xiang Yu grew ever more suspicious of him. This shows that sameness and difference in the human heart cannot be judged by these two kinds of outward appearance alone.

Therefore the wise observe with composure and listen with care, standing a little higher and seeing a little farther, and respond flexibly according to what the times require. When it is fitting to be of one mind, they are of one mind with others; when distinction is called for, they draw a distinction. Wei Qing was of humble origin, yet Emperor Wu of Han entrusted the army to him; You Yu was originally a captive, yet Duke Mu of Qin placed the government of the state in his hands. Wei Qing and You Yu were not originally close to their rulers, yet those rulers could still discern when trust and appointment were warranted—how much more, then, between fathers and sons and among brothers, are there grounds for coming together?

Guan Shu was the elder brother of Ji Dan, the Duke of Zhou, yet Ji Dan still punished him severely according to the law; Shi Hou was the son of Shi Que, yet Shi Que still put him to death in order to uphold great righteousness. Guan Shu and Shi Hou were close in relation to Ji Dan and Shi Que, and these men still knew how to draw a distinction when distinction was required—how much more, then, between rulers and ministers and among friends, are there also grounds for coming together? Thus, one who understands when to seek sameness and when to discern difference will bring about good fortune; one who does not understand this will invite disaster.

Yu Shun was able both to employ the “Eight Yuan,” eight worthy and capable men, and to punish the “Four Crimes,” four guilty persons, and thus left behind a reputation for sagely wisdom. King Zhou of Yin neither employed the “Three Benevolent Ones,” three men of humane virtue, nor punished the “Two Ministers,” two ministers who ought to have been chastised, and in the end suffered the disgrace of defeat and ruin. Thus, in handling the relation between sameness and difference, one must not overlook the subtle signs within it. Confucius said, “When one perceives the incipient signs of a matter, one acts at once, without waiting until the matter has fully appeared.” This is precisely the principle in question.

The sun is bright by nature, and there is no darkness its light cannot reach; yet if thick clouds cover it, its radiance cannot appear. Water can by nature reflect things as a mirror does: when something comes to the water’s edge, its shape is shown there; but if mud and sand are stirred into the water, the image disappears. When the original clarity of water and of the sun is obscured, is this not because external things—clouds, mud, and sand—have altered their condition?

The human mind is by nature able to discern the principles of affairs; it is not that it lacks acuity. It is only that feelings of partial affection are lodged within, while aversion and anger act upon it from without, so that judgments of right and wrong, gain and loss, can hardly avoid falling into disorder. How may this be shown?

In former times, Chonghua (Shun) was deeply filial, yet Gusou (Shun’s father) loathed him and even committed unrighteous acts himself. Wusheng (Duke Zhuang of Zheng) had ability, yet his mother, Wu Jiang, disliked him and in the end brought calamity about with her own hands. The crane is by station lowly, yet the ruler of Wei prized it and carried it in a splendid carriage; the horse is in itself unremarkable, yet the king of Chu loved it and dressed it in embroidered robes. Even among kin, who ought to be intimate without reserve, mutual hatred may still arise; even though the distinction between human beings and beasts is clear, some still show partial love for beasts. How much more, then, is a ruler’s trust in loyal ministers less sure than parents’ trust in their children, while the means by which the wicked curry favor with a ruler are cleverer still than those used to please cranes and horses. Seen in this light, those who are not blinded by love and hate are surely few.

Thus Ji An and Yuan Ang, because they remonstrated with loyal hearts, were repeatedly set aside; Ji Ru and Han Yan gained favor by flattery, and their station grew ever more eminent; Shusun Tong spoke flattering words and received rewards, while Jia Yi, whose speech was earnest and upright, was kept at a distance. The degree to which love and hate cloud a person can be as grave as this!

When a loyal minister serves his ruler and points out the ruler’s faults to his face, he wishes to help the ruler perfect his virtue, yet the ruler supposes instead that the loyal minister hates him. When a cunning flatterer serves his master and praises the master’s merits to his face, he in fact encourages the master’s faults, yet the master supposes instead that this man cherishes him. The ruler does not understand that only by hearing of his own faults and correcting them can he become an enlightened ruler who possesses the Dao (the Way); if he likes only to hear praise and forgets his own errors, he becomes an unrighteous lord. To help a ruler become a ruler who possesses the Dao—is that not the greatest care? To lead a ruler into unrighteousness—is that not the greatest harm?

Yet the ruler does not examine the intentions behind loyal counsel and flattery, and lightly decides closeness and distance according to personal likes and dislikes: whomever he takes to cherish him, he cherishes in return, so that favor extends even to that person’s three clans; whomever he takes to hate him, he hates in return, even to the point of implicating and exterminating five clans. In this way, the sincerity of loyal ministers who do not begrudge having their hearts laid open or giving up their lives is cast aside, while those who advance by flattery and intrigue are promoted beyond the ordinary ranks.

Rewards are meant to encourage good conduct, and the granting of titles and rank is meant to honor the worthy and capable. If the unworthy are allowed to enjoy renown, and those without merit to receive rewards, how can the people of the realm be urged to do good and establish achievement? Laws and ordinances are meant to forbid faults, and punishments are meant to chastise evil deeds. If the loyal are instead found guilty, and the upright instead punished, how can improper conduct throughout the realm be restrained?

Therefore, Emperor Gaozu of Han detested Yong Chi, yet Zhang Liang held that he might be enfeoffed and rewarded; the court of Sui favored the Junior Preceptor, yet Bobi held that an attack was warranted. Why? If a person of merit suffers jealousy and harm, that is precisely an inauspicious thing; and to draw close to those who lack virtuous conduct is to set oneself as well upon a path toward……

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Lower volume of the Taiping Liangtong shu (Book of Great Peace on the Twofold Sameness).