《抱朴子外篇》

Baopuzi Waipian (Outer Chapters of Baopuzi) appears in the Zhonghua Daozang within the collected writings of the masters (zhuzi wenji).

The work is organized in fifty chapters: Volume 1, “Celebrating Seclusion” (Jiadun); Volume 2, “Recluses” (Yimin); Volume 3, “Encouraging Learning” (Xuxue); Volume 4, “Venerating Instruction” (Chongjiao); Volume 5, “The Way of the Sovereign” (Jundao); Volume 6, “Integrity of Ministers” (Chenjie); Volume 7, “Sound Remonstrance” (Lianggui); Volume 8, “Difficulties of the Times” (Shinan); Volume 9, “On Managing Office” (Guanli); Volume 10, “Striving for Rectitude” (Wuzheng); Volume 11, “Valuing the Worthy” (Guixian); Volume 12, “Employing the Capable” (Renneng); Volume 13, “Respecting Scholars” (Qinshi); Volume 14, “On Punishment” (Yongxing); Volume 15, “Scrutinizing Recommendations” (Shenju); Volume 16, “Social Intercourse” (Jiaoji); Volume 17, “Supplementing What Is Lacking” (Beique); Volume 18, “Promoting Talent” (Zhuocai); Volume 19, “On Appointments” (Renming); Volume 20, “Names and Realities” (Mingshi); Volume 21, “Clear Judgment” (Qingjian); Volume 22, “Judging Character” (Xingpin); Volume 23, “Quelling Litigation” (Misong); Volume 24, “Admonition on Wine” (Jiujie); Volume 25, “Deploring Errors” (Jimiu); Volume 26, “Mocking Delusion” (Jihuo); Volume 27, “Piercing Arrogance” (Cijiao); Volume 28, “The Hundred-li Magistrate” (Baili); Volume 29, “Receiving the Obscure” (Jieshu); Volume 30, “Weighing the Age” (Junshi); Volume 31, “Reducing Redundancy” (Shengfan); Volume 32, “Esteeming Breadth of Learning” (Shangbo); Volume 33, “Faults of Han” (Hanguo); Volume 34, “Failures of Wu” (Wushi); Volume 35, “Keeping to the Barren Fields” (Shouji); Volume 36, “Content with Poverty” (Anpin); Volume 37, “Benevolence and Clarity” (Renming); Volume 38, “Broad Analogies” (Boyu); Volume 39, “Extensive Metaphors” (Guangpi); Volume 40, “Literary Meaning” (Ciyi); Volume 41, “Following the Root” (Xunben); Volume 42, “Reply to Mockery” (Yingchao); Volume 43, “Illuminating Obscurities” (Yubi); Volume 44, “The Hundred Schools” (Baijia); Volume 45, “Culture and Conduct” (Wenxing); Volume 46, “Correcting Guo [Tai]” (Zheng Guo); Volume 47, “Denouncing Mi [Heng]” (Tan Mi); Volume 48, “Questioning Bao [Jingyan]” (Jie Bao); Volume 49, “Knowing When to Stop” (Zhizhi), “Poverty and Success” (Qiongda), and “Repeated Words” (Chongyan); Volume 50, “Author’s Preface” (Zixu).

Note: The entry for the chapter “Way and Righteousness” (Daoyi) was absent in the original table of contents; it has been restored here according to the chapter title in the main text.

In Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, Volume 1, the essay titled “Jiadun” (In Praise of Reclusion and Withdrawal from the World), Ge Hong writes:

There was a gentleman known as Mr. Huai Bing—one whose nature was pure and whose inner resolve was firm as ice. He had grown weary of the toil of rushing about from place to place, and he lamented that truly honoring the worthy and humbling oneself before men of talent was no easy thing. He yielded fertile fields to others while he himself plowed salty, barren soil. He kept his stratagems folded away and rarely showed them; his breast was full of fine talent, yet he would not let it spill outward. He was so still that scarcely anyone heard him speak; he dimmed his brilliance so that the world could not see his gifts.

He left the splendor of great houses and clung to the quiet of a humble thatched hut. He did not seek the company of powerful families such as those of Jin Midi or Zhang Anshi, but nourished his expansive qi in secluded retirement. He treated rank and glory as misfortune, and looked on wealth and jewels as no more than weeds and dirt. His lofty aims rose above the dusty world; alone he went against the temper of the age and yearned after the ways of antiquity. He made his home on steep mountain heights, took fragrant orchids for his seat, drank the clear liquor of flowing rosy clouds, and fed on the essence of the Eight Stones—the legendary substances of Daoist immortality lore.

His mind ranged far, as if he stood above rainbows; his thoughts were light and subtle, as if he neared the heavens where the sun’s image is reflected. Nothing in the ten thousand things could disturb his peace; the four seas could not stir his spirit.

Then a young lord who chased power and influence heard of this and sighed: “When a fine steed hides in an empty valley, it is the shame of Bole, who knows horses; when a talent that could shake the age is buried in obscurity, those who recognize ability are to blame. How can we allow an outstanding man to care only for perfecting himself, while the sage court goes without helpers to govern the realm?”

So he came to his door and urged him: “I have only heard of one who spreads his wings and straightens his body yet cannot soar to the nine heavens or fly to the remote sky; if one cannot put human order in its proper place, one cannot count as a hero. You, sir, have a sharp, decisive edge and literary brilliance, yet you hide your learning in mountains no one visits and fold away your fine prose like the patterns on beasts and birds that refuse to show themselves—as if displaying a dragon’s markings in the dark of night, or sinking jade into the deep abyss. Like a venomous creature hiding in the height of summer, or a flower in spring concealing its splendor.

Even if you ponder to the limit and wield the brush, you can probe the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) and clarify the root of the ten thousand things. Where you write of joy, wooden puppets seem to smile; where you write of grief, effigies seem to knit their brows and shed tears. With a light touch, a goose feather seems to sink into weak water; with heavy emphasis, jade seems lifted by rushing torrents. In writing of parting, those as close as liver and gall can seem turned into strangers from Hu and Yue; in writing of harmony, every difference can be gathered into accord.”

Stern criticism is as biting as the cold frost of autumn, while gentle words can make flowers bloom on frozen branches. Suppress what stands tall, and it will topple from on high; lift up what lies low, and it will rise like a deep valley pool. Point out flaws even in what seems clear, and hidden corners will show light; rescue what is turbid, and even the Yellow River can run clear. Yet if one cannot extend fine grace to the many and establish great achievements, then even a moment of prominence will vanish like morning dew, and life will be as brief as a mayfly. To neglect the lofty enterprise that sages hold dear, and to forget that human life flows away like water and that sighs of old age come all too soon— I do not believe you, sir, would act in that way.

Heaven and earth are the greatest of all; next comes the relationship between ruler and minister. The sages of old worried over the times and wished to put their Way into practice; if for three months they had no lord to serve, they grew restless and uneasy. They took it as shame that the sage rulers of their own age had not reached the governance of Yao and Shun, and they pitied the people who could not in every household receive enfeoffment and live in peace. Therefore some shouldered a cauldron and entered public life to build merit, others sang to the sound of an ox horn seeking to fulfill their ambitions; they did not wait until an emperor wrapped wheel hubs in rush to summon them, nor wait until King Wen appeared before they roused themselves.

They understood how to hide and how to emerge, adapting to the changes of the times: when advance was called for, going forward brought benefit; when withdrawal was called for, they were not entangled. They preserved themselves through wisdom and spread teaching to aid the world. Then those whose conduct was transformed by fine customs and who washed away defilement in a clear age were like shadows reflected in a bright mirror, or like objects shaped by compass and square. Thus their achievements reached up to heaven and earth and down to humanity, and their kindness extended to the four quarters.

That is why Tang Yao appeared so lofty, Yu Shun could govern with humility, King Wen of Zhou held a third of the realm, King Wu of Zhou overthrew the Shang, Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Wen of Jin could set the world right, and Emperor Gaozu of Han followed Heaven’s mandate— none of them failed to gather the worthy as wings and rely on heroes as their boat. If everyone had only kept to the pure reclusion of Xu You washing his ears, or only contented themselves with the farmer’s plow, then the teaching of the ancient sages could not have been established, the splendid works of the wise could not have shone forth, songs praising ruler and minister in harmony would never have arisen, and the net that gathers talent from across the realm could never have been cast. Therefore those who conceal their talent must above all know how to adapt and follow the times; those who surpass the ordinary must above all display extraordinary ability and set chaos right.

If the sun (Yaoling) hides its light behind clouds, the brilliance that lights the sky cannot show itself; if a tiger sheathes its teeth and folds in its claws, its power to seize and tear cannot be displayed; if the famed sword Tai’e keeps its edge sheathed and does not strike, the sharpness that could cut in a single blow has no way to appear; if a fine steed holds its pace and does not run, the swiftness that chases the wind cannot be shown. When everyone is silent, Zigong is no different from a mute; when everyone closes their eyes, Lichu is no different from the blind.

The gentleman keeps himself pure, yet overlooks the great disorder of the age; he seeks only to fulfill his own aims, yet forgets the duty to steady the ruler and uphold order. He still carries the burden of concern for the world in his heart, yet when he leaves this life he leaves no name ringing clear as metal or stone. Even ordinary people would be stirred to indignation by this—how could the morally serious remain unmoved?

Straighten the plumb line and wood becomes straight; put the right Way into practice and evil withers. When Yu Shun elevated the worthy, the Four Evils were put to death; when Kongzi (Zhongni) held authority, Shaozheng Mao was executed. When thunder rolls, the warning drum used in sacrifice cannot be heard; when the morning sun rises, fireflies and candle flames look dim.

Unless one treats an illness as desperate as a soul about to depart, one cannot display the superb art of the Yue physician Bian Que; unless one steps forward in an age of many troubles, one cannot discern a person’s extraordinary and far-reaching capacity. To stand aloft with folded hands and watch someone drown is not how the humane hold back from trampling life; to hold the Way in one’s heart yet let the state drift into confusion is not what someone who should act would do.

If one insists on waiting until sundial grass grows thick in the middle of the road, until one hears the phoenix at sunrise, until a unicorn appears in the suburbs and joined trees grow in the fields, until banners are furled and no longer raised and weapons are sealed away with no one to seek them—until all under Heaven is at peace and Bo Yi (Shaobo) is on the point of withdrawing after his work is done—then who will lift up those sunk in hardship? I earnestly hope the gentleman will not stray too far from the wrong path, and will wake in time and return to the right Way.

At this, Mr. Haibing wore a calm expression, gazed into the distance, and let his spirit roam in vast, high emptiness; his intent was far off, as though nothing around him existed. Bowing his head, he answered: “Alas—is such a thing really said? The so-called perfected person acts in wuwei (non-action); their spirit rests in quiet emptiness. They do not spend their mind on salary and gain, so harm cannot befall them.”

One who does not place himself on perilous paths will naturally avoid the disaster of overturn and fall. Plain tea and simple food can still satisfy; the heart rests at ease, as if feasting at a lavish spread. Standing among ordinary folk, one may still rejoice inwardly in possessing one’s own domain. He once lodged in Yiliao’s dwelling and shut his door to avoid Ganmu; he befriended Zhuangzi and Old Laizi and settled peacefully in a humble lane. Firm as a great mountain, unmoved—why would he care whether he bowed low or rose high?

He held that the more desires one has, the more turbid the mind becomes; therefore he set aside worldly affairs and ceased to look aside with concern. He held that the higher one’s station, the deeper one’s worries; therefore he turned from power and profit and kept nothing on his mind. His nobility did not depend on rank; his wealth did not depend on money. He kept company with the great peng in the clouds and soared far away, and thus was not tethered to petty gain like rotting rats. He took Fan Wu’s experience as a stern warning, and therefore did not change his contentment with a life of basket and gourd because of poverty.

Moreover, heaven and earth are vast, while human life is brief. A lifetime is like a white colt flashing past a door crack—lodged between boundless sky and earth, swift as a shooting star, light and quick as a flying arrow. Better to be at ease for a while; why torment oneself for external things? The hawk and falcon are not caught in nets; the qilin does not fall into traps. Even birds and beasts know to shun harm—should people in the dusty world not yet know to cherish themselves?

As for Wuyue, who sacrificed his whole family to achieve merit; Ji Xin, who walked into fire to deceive the Chu army; Chen Jia, who cut his throat to prove his brother’s innocence; Zhong You, who died and was minced into paste; men of Ying’s gate who bared their swords to show resolve; Nie Zheng, dismembered in repaying a kindness; Jing Ke, mutilated in repaying Yan; Fan Yuqi, who in grief offered up his head—all these were the wild delusions of shallow vision. Would anyone of clear wisdom and high insight choose such paths?

Heavy stipends bring heavy responsibility; exalted rank wearies the spirit. Thus the Lacquer Garden registrar Zhuangzi fished for his own joy and paid no heed to the honor of minister or prime minister; Baicheng Zi Gao himself took up the plow and did not value the high seat of a feudal lord. Yang the butcher was content with his trade; Yang Zhu would not lightly sacrifice even a single hair of his own. Those who chase fame and profit alone often cannot see what they truly want: when they gather, they do not choose the right tree to roost on; when they take office, they do not weigh whether the times suit them. Greedy for promotion, they do not consider the disaster of talent outstripping rank; accepting heavy duty, they do not consider whether they are equal to the task. When they speak of glory and wealth, they invoke Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou in their own defense; when they speak of the regret that follows full success, they avoid the lesson of the overturned tripod and ruined charge.

(“Xuanhuang” denotes heaven and earth; “fangzhang” here means a sumptuous feast; “danpiao” means the plain fare of poverty; “fucheng” means holding high office without virtue or capacity, like an unfit rider in a carriage; “fusu” means failing in one’s charge, as when a tripod is overturned and the stew spilled.)

It is like trying to take the pearl from the Dragon King of the Yellow River while he sleeps, or expecting peace and safety while basking in high favor and rank—such ways court danger. To cling to a moment’s ease and not see the disaster that must come, or to accept office without weighing whether one is equal to it, is to make failure hard to avoid. When people speak of wealth and honor, they cite Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou to excuse themselves; when they speak of how high places invite regret, they say nothing about the overturned cauldron.

If one lacks even the brief glory of the morning mushroom yet dreams of the long life of the great catalpa tree, it is like treading thin ice and waiting for summer, or standing on a rotten branch and hoping for a gale. It is like fish in a deep pool lured by fragrant bait, or pheasants by the marsh swallowing poisoned grain; like eating tainted dried meat to still hunger, or drinking wine laced with poison to quench thirst.

Long ago, when Jizi saw King Zhou of Shang use ivory chopsticks, he foresaw that extravagance would only grow—and wept. When Confucius heard of burying clay figurines with the dead, he sighed over the harm such a custom would bring. Both read great change in small signs and the end in the beginning. Yet the foolish, caught in perilous snares, do not know it. Why is foresight so rare? Because desire for gain runs too deep.

King Cheng of Zhou was wise yet believed slander; the Duke of Zhou was sage yet was driven to flee south to Chu. He voiced his grief in the “Owl” ode, and only by opening the golden casket was he barely cleared of false blame. Rulers who wake only when death is near are few; unwelcome calumny never lacks for supply. Virtue does not show itself at once like a gale flattening dry stalks; affairs are not praised as talent because one presents a jade tablet. When grief and tears come, it is often too late—a outcome not hard to understand.

Slander soaked in over time loosens even firm glue and lacquer; defamation seeping in turns flesh-and-blood kin against one another. Dust and feathers piled high can sink a boat or snap an axle; one tale told three times makes a tiger seem to appear in the market. Jiang Chong was distant and lowly, no intimate of Crown Prince Liu Ju, yet ruined him with lies; a stepmother need not be close to Boqi to frame him. Accusations that “dig at the roots” destroy father and son; lies “of bees in the sleeve” break the bond between mother and child. How much less can other ties be trusted not to be split by others’ words?

Alas—Wu Zixu served in loyalty yet was cast into the river; pitifully, Bai Qi held to principle yet died by his own hand. Such cases chill the clear-sighted and bewilder even the discerning.

If one tries to correct what one shares with others by leaning on one’s own weaknesses, and criticizes the many from a private opinion, one fails to see that although metal can overcome wood, a single awl cannot fell a whole forest; although water can overcome fire, a sheng or a ge of water cannot put out a fire that covers a mountain. A dab of glue cannot clear the Yellow River; a foot of water cannot cool the heat of Mount Xiaoqiu. (A sheng and a ge denote a very small amount of water; Mount Xiaoqiu is a place of legend, burning hot.) So those who can keep body and name intact are few, while those who are mocked first and meet disaster later are many.

People fear that high rank will bring regret, yet will not put out the thirst for glory; they worry about slander and shame, yet will not curb a contentious, unrestrained heart. That is like hating dampness yet jumping into a deep pool, hating one’s shadow yet refusing to stand in the shade, boring a hole in the boat and then trying to stop the leak, or heaping fuel on the fire and expecting the water to stop boiling.

The seven-foot body is what life bestows; one ought to receive it whole, not return with it maimed. The heart within a square inch is one’s own to rule; it ought not be left to wander at will. Plow for one’s food, dig a well for drink, wear plain cloth against the cold, live in a thatched hut against wind and rain, play the zither and chant for joy, regulate the breath to lengthen life, wander among bamboo slips and books, and lodge one’s meaning in writing—uphold the constant Dao and pass one’s days in peace, and that is enough.

When moral cultivation is complete, respect follows of itself; when De runs deep, standing is naturally honored. To shoot sparrows with the Marquis of Sui’s pearl is what the wise would not do. Why must one lean on power and rank and wait for an official salary before one can eat?

Those who rest in poverty treat having no goods as wealth; those who accept low station treat holding no office as honor. Hence Guan Ning (You’an) crossed the sea to escape and nourished spirit in quiet; Hu Zhao (Zizhen) chose withdrawal and farming. Boyi, Shuqi, and Bi Gan suffered for their virtue; Han Xin and Ying Bu were punished for merit too great.

One branch is enough for the phoenix to roost—why demand a dense forest? A shallow pool is enough for the dragon to float—why demand a wide sea? Wild greens please the heart more than feast from mountain and sea; clear spring is sweeter than strong wine. Coarse cloth is more comfortable than brocade; an old cotton coat looks finer than an emperor’s ceremonial robe. A bamboo staff in hand is freer than a scepter; wind in the leaves delights more than silk and bamboo music. A thatched hut is dearer than halls lacquered red; uncarved rafters are more precious than beams carved in fine patterns.

Treat the lofty peaks of Mount Song as towers and pavilions, and the springs streaming from the cliffs as splendid mansions. Regard accumulated writings and classics as stores in a granary, and profound discourse as gold and jade treasures. Set aside attachment to mediocre company, and trim the desires that petty officials chase. Take a humble thatched hut as finer than vermilion pillars; cherish undecorated rafters more than carved beams.

Wander far into deep, quiet places; gather in your wit and talent to escape worldly clamor. Like the inchworm that bends its body, draw in your sharp edges, hide your luster, and keep to plainness; show yourself clumsy, play the dullard, know when to stop, and often rest content. Then you may calmly savor wind and cloud as they stir and drift—and above the Nine Yangs meet the sunlight, as if wings lifted you high; lie back upon the parasol tree, then drop down to Xuanzhou (the fabled isle of immortals). How could that compare to being led by the bridle and crouching at the manger, or to a sacrificial ox draped in brocade?

Lord Fushi said: To know only advancement and refuse withdrawal is to cling to favor and forget how to retire; to insist on leaving and refuse to return to office is to shun public service and fail the duty of a subject. Therefore the person of penetration holds that the body is not wholly one’s own, and yields to the times one meets. Whether to hide or to serve, to keep silent or to speak out—nothing is decided beforehand in rigid fashion. When the moment calls for stopping, stop; when it calls for acting, act.

If the court sends gifts of engagement and lights torches in the courtyard to summon you, the noble person’s hour to unfold the Way has come, and taking office is timely. When fortune enters the Yangjiu (years of calamity) and slander holds sway, you should shut the door, tie the mouth of the bag tight, and not display your talents. When the dragon should rise, it rises; when the phoenix should fold its wings, it folds—each in accord with the moment. In antiquity some refused office resolutely to escape turmoil; some, seeing signs of danger, left at once and would not stay an extra day. They feared that when Witch Mountain caught fire, orchid-grass and mugwort would burn along with it—in other words, that the innocent would be dragged down with the guilty.

Now a sage emperor holds the nation’s destiny; the realm is settled, the Way is practiced, kindness reaches the people, and humane virtue spreads afar. His majesty calms distant lands; his grace fills the four quarters. His thick virtue bears all things like earth; his breadth covers like heaven. Wondrous teaching moves like clouds and rain; deep favor is wide and full. The court opens its gates in sincerity and invites the worthy, hoping that outstanding talent will come to assist. This is an opportunity that comes once in a thousand years—a gathering rare since heaven and earth were opened. Yet you, sir…

Master Huaibing said: “When sage-kings’ transforming influence flourishes, it is indeed as you say. Yet whether to take office or withdraw each person follows his own heart. Under Yao and Shun, men like Jizi and Xu You still lived withdrawn in the hills; under the Xia, worthy men who kept their integrity remained in remote mountains and marshes. Did they do so from fear of the dangers of public life? They simply each chose what suited them. Hence some set their will firm and would not serve lords and princes; the hexagrams of the Book of Changes also record the right conduct a common man may hold fast to. Yanzhou’s Jizi kept faith and integrity, and the sages praised him for it.

“I dwell at ease in fields and gardens and hide my traces among hills and waters precisely because I am not skilled in affairs of state and lack the talent to govern the people. Now worthy men gather like clouds and outstanding talent arrives in succession; civil and military officials fill the court, and every branch of business is settled. I do not wish again to crowd among sun and moon like a firefly, nor to strike a little earthen bowl beside a great bell; I would not offer a light fan in bitter cold, nor display a fur coat in midsummer. That would only be seen as useless and invite ridicule for being out of season.

“If one devotes himself to reading and writing, he can preserve his nature, achieve a name, and still assist in transforming influence; if he forces himself into what he cannot do, he may fall into hardship—like the young fox crossing the water in the Book of Changes, almost across yet finally wetting its tail, leaving regret. Therefore I am content to use my strengths and thereby keep my weaknesses from harm. Though I have not built merit at court nor made a career in the army, in instructing the young, spreading the Way, and nurturing upright qi, one can still reach a kindred goal by a different path—it is not to be without integrity. For someone of my slight talent, to hold to this small steadfastness—how could that compare with Xu You?”

Disciples of later generations ought to refine one another in study and jointly promote the Great Dao and nurture the upright way. Though their paths differ, their ultimate destination is one and the same; this is not meant to belittle those who steadfastly guard their integrity. How can those whose capacity falls short, yet who hold fast to their principles, compare with Xu You, the legendary hermit? In an enlightened age, such people are treated with tolerance and acceptance, so that they may dwell in the same free and easy detachment as the recluses of Emperor Yao’s time—is that not also fitting?

The young man who had been chasing power and influence, upon hearing this, was at once ashamed and unsettled; his expression changed to one of solemn respect, and he said: “Your words, sir, aid in transforming others and can use writing to expose wickedness and correct error. You honor withdrawal, quiet, and purity to restrain the restless wind of rivalry and pursuit; you advocate Confucian teaching to rescue the ancient words of the sages from near extinction. If there were no one in office, who would put human relationships and the proper order in place? If there were no one in reclusion, who would instruct ignorant children? Under heaven there is no one who is not a subject—so why must we assume that those who wear caps and hold court tablets are right, while those who gladly go hungry and live behind a humble gate are wrong? One who loses his way in the region of the Cloud-Dream marshes must rely on a compass to know direction; one who sails the great sea must likewise look up to the Pole Star to find the way home. Now, having heard your excellent teaching, I realize how I was deceived before. Allow me to put on the scholar’s cap and robes, whip this sorry horse of mine, and strive to catch up with fine steeds; I wish to draw widely upon worthy men and recommend them without rejecting any in the choosing.”

End of Book One of Baopuzi waipian (Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity).

Book Two of Baopuzi waipian, chapter title Yimin (Eccentric Recluses Who Decline Office).

Master Who Embraces Simplicity said: “I once traveled in former days…”

Baopuzi said: In former days I traveled on Cloud Terrace Mountain and visited a recluse there. I happened to meet a man in official service. The official said: “The sage ruler sits above and holds the four quarters in hand; the Central Plains and the border peoples alike submit, and distant regions come bearing tribute. Yet you follow the ancient ways of Bo Chengzi, mingling among birds and beasts. Times have changed and customs differ; affairs of the world cannot be judged by one measure alone. In the past, one who fed on trees, dwelt in mountains and forests, and was not entangled by outward things was a person of lofty purity; to act so today may be taken for one who shuns the world.

“A gentleman thinks of danger before it shows, and finds a way out before disaster strikes. In doing as you do, are you not fleeing the inward sickness that afflicted Zhang Yi through worry, only to invite the outward harm that befell Shan Bao in the hills? You fix your mind on the peril of fullness, yet overlook the near troubles that come from living among people; you sidestep shallow hazards like an ox’s hoofprint, yet walk toward a hundred-fathom abyss you cannot fathom; you avoid water that wets the foot, yet throw yourself into the fire without knowing it?”

The recluse replied: “One whose eyes are fixed on a young mouse—how would he understand the aim of Jiao Yu? One who cares only for a few grains in the courtyard—how would he know where the yuan and luan birds long to go? This is like Jiao Miao mocking the cloud-soaring peng, the morning mushroom finding Da Chun beyond belief, the frog in the well doubting the sea turtle, or fish and snakes ridiculing Yinglong. You are indeed glad to be urged or dissuaded, yet how would you grasp the lofty mood that is mysterious, far-reaching, and free? I am fortunate to live in an age like those of Yao and Shun—why should I worry that my aims cannot be fulfilled?”

The official said: “In olden times the kuang-juan and Huashi, holding fast to the Way, refused to serve their lords and hid by the sea—yet Jiang Shang had them put to death. For you to withdraw so deeply into seclusion—is it not dangerous?”

The recluse replied: “Lü Shang was skilled at arms but not at governing the state. He could not embrace all things like Heaven and Earth, nor gather every stream like the sea and high mountains; he would not praise the worthy, honor virtue, or delight in nurturing talent, yet was content to kill by punishment without cultivating benevolence and righteousness. Therefore the calamity his killing invited was planted from the very start of his enfeoffment. When the Duke of Zhou heard of it, he knew his state would not long endure. The way of governing a state and the arts of attack, defense, and holding ground each have their proper strengths…”

Therefore, the calamity of plunder and slaughter was already latent from the moment land was first granted as reward. When the Duke of Zhou heard of this, he understood that such a course could not long preserve the state. Offense and defense are circumstances of a different kind; in the way of governance, what matters is knowing how to change with the times.

Lü Shang (Jiang Taigong) did not grasp governing the realm with the unhurried care one gives to cooking a small fish, but instead spread abroad the arts of long-distance charioteering and the methods of battle formation, thereby harming men of lofty integrity. It was like trusting armor to protect the body while going down to swim in water, or like applying the rules of archery to a quarry already in full flight—method and object simply did not match.

To tear down the nests of many birds is to ensure that the auspicious phoenix will not come to roost; to drain the pond where fish and turtles dwell is to drive the divine dragon far away; to cut open the wombs of common beasts is to keep the qilin from lingering in the suburbs; to injure one man of virtue is to ensure that outstanding talent will not set foot in your domain. Lü Shang founded the enterprise and handed it down to posterity, yet he set harsh precedents and opened a path of harming worthy men—with the result that he could only drive the exceptional away for other states to gain them, and expel the capable so that they turned toward enemy lands. How could that compare with buying a horse’s bones to summon a thousand-li steed, or honoring a worthy in a humble lane until the army of Qin withdrew?

Someone asked, “How do you rate Lü Shang beside the Duke of Zhou?” A man in office said, “I truly find it hard to judge.” A recluse said, “The Duke of Zhou was a great sage who could, from the height of rank, treat those of low station with ritual respect. At meals he would often stop and spit out food from his mouth; while washing his hair he would grasp his wet locks and rise to receive guests, fearing lest he miss a man of talent. He showed ritual honor to seventy men of humble birth; he personally received with full ceremony and took as teachers ten who wore plain cloth, and counted twelve as friends—yet he did not force them to take office at court. Had Lü Shang stood in the Duke of Zhou’s place, those men would likely all have been corpses displayed in the market and at court, or rotting remains in gullies and brooks.

“Emperor Yao was not without the power to summon Xu You and Chaofu; King Shun was not without the power to coerce Shan Juan and Shi Hu; Yu was not without the power to press Baocheng Zigao; King Tang was not without the power to employ Bian Sui and Wu Guang; Marquis Wen of Wei was not without the power to make Duan Ganmu submit; Duke Ping of Jin was not without the power to have Qi Tang take up office as an official.”

If they were so repeatedly urged and held up for praise, was it because the six rulers were weak and incompetent? In fact, people’s admired qualities differ, and it is hard to make them uniform. Some cherish the fair name of honoring the worthy and are ashamed to leave behind the foul name of harming the good. Letting recluses go does not add to a ruler’s prestige; not forcing them to stay does not mean worrying about empty offices. Going along with their wishes can instead spread instruction, promote humility and yielding, warn those greedy for advancement, and transform the rash and frivolous. Recluses’ skills may not be immediately useful, and their talent may not suffice for court office—yet are they not still better than those who shrug their shoulders, lower their brows, and fawn on the powerful, who carry gifts and wealth on night errands, drift with the current, scramble for connections, vie to attach themselves, and treat fame and rank as goods to buy and sell? They abandon the root of virtue and learning and chase the downstream of currying favor and forming factions.

Even those six rulers were unwilling to speak harshly and offend recluses—how then would they harm them with sword and blade? If the sages and worthies are truly worth emulating, Lü Shang’s conduct was plainly improper.

Emperor Gaodi of Han, though lacking in small points of conduct and untrained in the classics, was broad-minded, generous, and tolerant, not bogged down in petty affairs, with a large spirit. Though he longed to have the “Four Ho of Mount Shang” (four worthies who hid at the end of Qin and start of Han), he did not coerce them to leave seclusion. Later, when the heir apparent respectfully asked them to assist him, he honored virtue and checked private feeling and did not block the matter for fear of personal loss. When they sang the “Song of Purple Fungus” (a song the Four Ho composed in retirement), the favored concubine dared not monopolize power—showing how far he valued the worthy and respected recluses. That a man in plain cloth became master of the realm truly showed extraordinary measure.

Moreover, Lü Shang’s execution of Juan and Hua was because he feared their ways would shake the people’s resolve. But the real trouble in the world is that people rush to gain office and will not single-mindedly cultivate conduct—not that too many are content with poverty and low station. Even when recluses are often looked up to, those who fix their hearts on power and profit and whose desires know no limit cannot in the end cut off their usual greed and will not turn to admire withdrawn, quiet living. Since heaven and earth were opened, people have not been few, yet those who can forget wealth and rank and renounce power still do not reach one in ten thousand.

Confucius studied in person under Laozi, yet could not put into practice the way of Wuwei (non-action) that Laozi taught. Zigong and Yuan Xian had the same teacher, yet could not follow Yuan Xian’s example of plain poverty and quiet contentment. It was not that no such people existed in those days—only those who could truly set aside wealth and rank were, in the end, fewer than one in ten thousand. Confucius learned from Laozi himself but did not live by his Wuwei; Zigong and Yuan Xian shared one master but did not imitate Yuan Xian’s detachment. The Four Villains lived in the same age as Chao Fu and Xu You; Wang Mang was contemporary with the two Gongs (Gong Sheng and Gong She)—yet in neither case could people match those models.

Even whipping and driving the people, or exposing them to hardship and shame to force them to emulate Juan and Hua (recluses of that kind), would not have worked—they would have refused. Lü Shang went so far as to worry that such figures would corrupt public morals. He failed to see that applying military discipline to a peaceful age and wrongfully harming the worthy was cruel and deeply mistaken. Only because his achievements were great did he escape ruin on that account.

Before Lü Shang met King Wen of Zhou, he too had hidden himself in poverty and low station. Common people despised him; an old woman turned him away; his goods would not sell; butchering and fishing brought him nothing—no one looked up to him. When he withdrew from the world, why should he have feared that Juan and Hua would “get in the way” of everyone else? If King Zhou of Shang had seized Lü Shang for shunning public life and jailed him, would Lü Shang at the point of death have thought he deserved punishment?

Emperor Wu of Wei (Cao Cao) also relied on severe punishments and frequent executions. He genuinely wanted to employ Zhuge Liang, but Zhuge Liang declared that he would not serve. Cao Cao apologized and let him go, saying that by right one must not humiliate a person of outstanding purity in the court of a tainted ruler. His later campaigns to unite the realm and found his line were not wholly without justification.

Disorder had long prevailed, and scrambling for name and profit had become the norm: some shot up through money, others through cliques and patronage. Custom hardened, habits set, and the Great Dao was increasingly neglected; the young grew uncomprehending, and Confucian teaching was buried. Today, to make one’s way in the world, it seems impossible without wealth. If there are truly exceptional people who stay at home and devote themselves to the Dao, they should be honored and sought out, so that the value of yielding and living apart from office is clearly shown.

Sun Wu and Wu Qi, even when they personally took up weapons in battle, had only the strength of one man; yet when they applied their stratagems and tactics, they could match the force of ten thousand. Today, if great Confucian scholars (men of broad learning who know the classics) take office, they may not be equal to concrete administration; but when they teach in the mountains and forests, they can awaken dull students and spread ritual and respect. Why tame an elephant to catch a mouse, or put harness on a luan bird? If people bury themselves in marshes and wild hills and their talent never finds use, spending their lives in vain—what is admirable in that?

Yi Min replied: “A person like you might be said to cling only to a little mound and linger at Fox Hill—you have not yet climbed Mount Langfeng to look down on clouds and rainbows; you play only in shallow pools and low-lying water, and have not yet launched a boat on the southern sea or crossed the River of Heaven. So-called men of resolve need not chase salary and rank, nor must they build military fame. The highest level is not to seek to show oneself off; the next is not to seek reputation.

“To spread wings and fly far, rising above the crowd; to open a path and not follow the old tracks; to do what ordinary people cannot and to give up what most talent would not give up; not to let the world measure you by more or less, gain or loss; to keep the mind calm and pure, unstained by titles and position—such simple integrity is enough to wash away the filth of a hundred generations, and such lofty conduct is enough to stir later ages. Why submit to office, wear purple and red robes, ride in carriages, wrap yourself in brocade patterned with beasts, or swallow tempting bait like Zhan He? Today you may be as hot to the touch as flame; by evening you may be as cold as ashes.

“The little bird chixue would not trade a thicket of wormwood for the sky above the clouds; the great fish wangwei would not trade a deep mountain cave for the boundless sea. Tigers and leopards in a spacious hall feel grief; the great swan on Mount Song’s heights also feels sorrow. Each thing has its own heart and aim, and finds peace in what suits it; none fails to be at ease when it gets what it fits, or grieve when it loses its proper place.

“Those busy governing the world are everywhere; if for one day there is no ruler, they grow restless. That is like amassing jade at Lantian and fine timber in the Deng Forest—skilled hands may take what they need at will. Why, like fish out of water or birds without sky, force yourself into what does not suit you? To praise withdrawal and transcend the world is what the ancient sages approved. Some serve, some retire; each follows their own inclination.

“What makes a scholar noble is establishing virtue and leaving writings. Filial piety, brotherly love, benevolence, and uprightness—conduct and career clear and pure—count as establishing virtue; reading widely in the classics and writing copiously and clearly counts as establishing doctrine. Shan Juan had no achievement in governing the people; that does not make him lower than a petty official. Confucius had no merit in war and conquest; that does not make him less than Han Xin or Bai Qi. When both virtue and reputation are preserved intact, that is best.

“To hide away in order to fulfill one’s aspiration— the ancients praised this. Boyi and Shuqi were lofty, straight, and unwilling to bend with the times; the ancients lamented that they would not humiliate themselves by submitting. ‘Unwilling to lower one’s aim’ means holding withdrawal as pure and lofty; ‘unwilling to suffer disgrace’ means knowing that bondage and service stain the person. Mencius praised the sages’ loftiness and called this inner quality the ‘Heavenly Rank,’ deeming it more precious than seals and titles. Xunzi exalted cultivating the will and casting off glory; once the Way is complete, one may lightly regard kings and nobles.

“The world fears power alone and values profit alone. Those deep in virtue but without success the world calls mediocre; those small in talent but given heavy posts the world calls brilliant. Some risk danger, forget life and death, and throw their bodies into ten-thousand-foot cliffs—all for a moment’s glory. Compared with those who value the realm or even cherish their own limbs, how far apart are such people!”

An official said: “Those who withdraw into reclusion find joy among mountains, forests, and marshes. They do not accept worldly honor and rank; they give free rein to themselves and are not put to use by the age. The emoluments and wealth they prize are indeed things of no benefit to the world under heaven. What do you think of living that way?”

The recluse answered: “The qilin does not guard the gate like a dog; the phoenix does not announce dawn like a rooster; Teng Huang, the legendary steed, does not pull the plow; and the one who leads prayers at sacrifice does not manage the kitchen. Each thing has its own strength; one cannot demand that all perform the same duty.

“What spreads light to boundless reaches and diffuses warmth is the sun; what lights the room at night is the lamp; what smelts metal and stone so they can be put to use is fire. The world cannot long do without the sun, nor can a day pass without fire—yet the uses of sun and fire differ in scale, and one cannot measure them by the same yardstick.

“The rivers and seas are vast, circling between heaven and earth, rising as clouds and rain, falling as the hundred streams. Yet for daily drawing of water, a deep well serves better; for irrigating fields and gardens, ditches and channels are more convenient. When you compare their magnitude, can you say that any of them is utterly useless?

“Jie and Zhou were emperors, while Confucius was merely a minister under a feudal lord. Yet today if someone is likened to Jie or Zhou, no one fails to take offense; if someone is likened to Confucius, no one fails to be pleased. Clearly human worth does not after all lie in the height of office. Mencius said that Yu, Hou Ji, and Yan Yuan, even if they exchanged places, would act the same. Zai Yu also said that Confucius was far more worthy than Yao or Shun. That commoners can be praised alongside kings, and scholars can take Yao and Shun as the highest models of virtue, rests on character—why must one hold office?

“Some merge with the spirits, blend into the transforming work of nature, and hold the myriad things of heaven and earth within the breadth of their hearts. Their minds are wide; they do not let worldly affairs occupy their thoughts. Favor and disgrace do not disturb the purity of their inner nature. What the vulgar pursue cannot stain their spirit; others’ delusions cannot alter their aim. Honor and wealth seem to them like superfluous growths; the things of the world are like the cast-off shell of a cicada, not worth clinging to. How could such a person stoop to bow the body and lower the head, drink and make polite conversation in settings they dislike, or exhaust themselves chasing what they do not wish to pursue?”

If that is so, why would one still debase one’s own body—bowing the waist and bending the limbs to match another’s bearing; drinking wine one does not relish and chasing after what others have cast aside; forcing a smile to win promotion and groveling to avoid demotion; fearing that worldly people will be displeased and worrying that one’s situation grows worse day by day? How could one reduce Longyuan (a famed sword) to the use of awls and drills, or lower the sacred drum to play crude tunes; swap the yellow battle-axe (symbol of authority) for a sickle used to cut grass, or fold splendid banners and hide them among woods and brush?

Gugong Danfu leaned on his staff and gave up royal rank; Yi of Yue hid in a cave to escape summons; Ji Zha declined a fief and returned to farm the fields; Old Master Lai took up watering gardens and kept far from official life. Each followed the life he loved and would not trade it for anything. From this it is clear: to live purely, without mixed motives, is wealth; not to let oneself be enslaved by others is true nobility. Titles and fiefs are merely salary and profit—not real wealth and honor. The higher the office, the heavier the burden; the greater the merit, the easier to incur envy. Only in poverty and low station, where none contend, can one long keep one’s treasure without worry.

Wearing washed old clothes, covering oneself with coarse cloth, pulling up home-grown mallow and ceasing to weave—even lacking a vessel to cover beans, eating plain coarse food—still draws reproach for bullying the lowly and feigning virtue. Building high screen walls and banquet vessels, keeping three storehouses and dining on delicacies, living as rich as a feudal lord or as comfortably as the Marquis of Anchang—brings instead the names of overstepping one’s superiors and living in foul excess. Far better to fix the heart on classic writings, expel the old and draw in the new (tu gu na xin: exhale stale breath and inhale clear qi—a phrase of nourishing life and cultivation), seek fullness from the plow, and find what one needs beside the loom. When the belly faces the river it feels as if one were sated; when the body rests on a single branch it feels secure. The myriad things flourish in abundance, yet in the end all turn to dust.

Sipping thick gruel to fill the mouth, wearing coarse cloth and old padded robes, dwelling in plain self-contentment without sorrow or joy—such is a life both noble and happy, and scarcely anything compares to it.

If one seeks office merely for the sake of fame, then writing an essay and leaving one’s name would be enough to vent what burns in the chest—why must one depend on the historian’s pen, or exhaust oneself climbing to high rank? Mencius did not treat turning aside arrows and stones as his merit; Yang Xiong did not take governing the people and benefiting the age as his ambition. To seek benevolence and obtain it—is that not sufficient?

Those in office also say: “People who withdraw and hide from the world refuse to be subjects. If that is so, how can they dwell on the ruler’s land and eat the ruler’s grain?” The recluse answers: “Why speak in that way? When Yan Hui died, Duke Ding of Lu intended to go in person to offer condolences and sent someone to ask Confucius. Confucius said, ‘Whoever lives within the borders of Lu is a subject.’ Thereupon the duke ascended by the eastern steps and observed the rites due from a lord. From this it is clear: among all who stand on the earth’s soil, none is not the ruler’s subject.

“Those who serve at court exert themselves in public duty; those who dwell in hills and forests cultivate virtue to admonish a greedy and corrupt age. The road differs, but the destination is the same—they are all subjects. When the ruler holds the realm, all under heaven is one household; wherever sun and moon shine and rain and dew fall lies within his domain. Can anyone hang in empty air and feed on clouds and mist, and yet not live upon the land or eat the grain it yields?

“Gold and jade in the mountains, pearls and shells in the waters—though they are not stored in the state treasury and are not drawn on for the court’s daily needs, they are still property belonging to the ruler. Recluses who do not take their place among high rank and rich stipends are like the hidden treasures of hills and streams—do they not likewise belong to the state? Xu You did not flee beyond the four seas; the Four Hoary Ones of Mount Shang did not withdraw to the farthest wilds. Thus it is said: the worthy throughout the land are all subjects of the Son of Heaven. Duangan Mu did not take up arms to guard the frontier or build fortifications, yet he still rendered service to the state of Wei.

“Today the hermit keeps to a plain dwelling, purifies body and character, and recites the way of the ancient kings, so that the people learn modesty and yielding and the teachings of Confucian and Mohist schools do not fall into decay—this too is what Yao and Shun would approve. In former times Bo Yi and Shu Qi would not eat the grain of Zhou; Bao Jiao died on a bridge—they clung to a private code of honor in a fashion not worth imitating. Once, Emperor An of Han sent black ceremonial dress, red silk cord, and jade and silk to summon Zhou Yanzu.”

Emperor Huan once used black and red ceremonial robes, jade, and silk to invite Wei Xiuming. Emperor Shun likewise employed these gifts to invite Yang Zhongxuan and on the spot appointed him Palace Attendant, but he did not take up the post. Emperor Wen of Wei summoned Guan You’an; he did not respond. The court then appointed him Director of the Imperial Household, and he still did not accept. Thereupon the emperor issued an edict ordering the local authorities to send him one sheep and two hu of wine every eighth month.

Emperor Huan used black and red silk, jade, and bolts of cloth to invite Xu Ruzi, and appointed him Administrator of Taiyuan and Chancellor of Donghai; he accepted neither office. Emperor Shun used the same gifts to invite Fan Jigao, who did not respond to the summons. The court then decreed that the local authorities should send him one sheep and two hu of wine every eighth month, and further granted him a armrest and a staff, treating him with the rites due a teacher.

Under Emperor Xian, Zheng Kangcheng had been summoned by provincial and commandery offices and recommended as Worthy and Upright and as Outstanding Talent; the various ministries summoned him fourteen times in all, yet he refused every appointment. The court also summoned him by the imperial carriage, offering him the posts of Left Palace Gentleman, Erudite, Chancellor of Zhao, Palace Attendant, and Grand Minister of Agriculture, but he never rose to take up any of them. Emperor Zhao summoned Han Fu by imperial carriage; he came in response and was granted fifty bolts of silk together with sheep and wine.

Fa Gaoqing was twice recommended as Filial and Incorrupt; his province summoned him five times, the ministries eight times, and he was nine times recommended for Worthy and Upright and for Erudite, with three further summonses—yet he accepted none of them. Emperor Huan used black and red silk, jade, bolts of cloth, and an honorific carriage with a single axle to invite Han Boxiu, who did not respond; he used the same gifts and carriage to invite Jiang Boya, who accepted appointment as Grand Master of Palace Counsel and Administrator of Jianwei but did not go to his post.

All these men were held in esteem by the court and were neither forcibly conscripted nor punished. From this one can see that if those emperors truly rewarded recluses who declined office in the right way, then Lü Shang’s execution of Hua Shi was plainly brutal and cruel, with a grave offense behind it. Men who read books and sought office heard this and felt a pang of loss; they sighed and said, “Only now do we understand that the principle of transcending the mundane world is not something petty, vulgar people can perceive.”

Volume 2 of the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi is complete.

Encouraging Diligent Study

People who are born into the world all have their allotted span and their share of fortune and misfortune—this is what Heaven has fixed and cannot be changed. Yet whether one’s life is long or short, rich or poor, honored or lowly, wise or foolish, strong or weak—these outcomes depend largely on what one does with oneself. Heaven gives each person a nature; how that nature is cultivated is up to the person. If you do not study and refine yourself, even if Heaven intended you for greatness, you will sink into obscurity. If you apply yourself to learning and self-cultivation, even if your original endowment was modest, you can still rise and achieve something.

Some say: “If fate is already decided, what use is study?” This is wrong. Fate is like the seed; study is like tending the field. A good seed in neglected soil yields little; a ordinary seed well cared for can still produce a harvest. The Book of Changes says that the noble person, through self-cultivation, improves his lot. Confucius said that only at fifty did he understand the mandate of Heaven—meaning that before that he still had to strive through learning and practice. If everything were fixed from birth, why would the sages have labored to teach and transform people?

Others say: “I have no talent for learning.” That too is an excuse. Talent differs in degree, but effort can make up for lack of gift. The ancients said that diligence can compensate for dullness. Yu the Great was slow of speech yet became a sage; Zi Xia was slow to understand yet mastered the classics. They succeeded because they did not give up. If you never try, how can you know your limit?

Some fear hardship: “Study is tiring; I would rather rest.” Rest without purpose leads nowhere. The body grows weak if it never works; the mind grows dull if it never learns. A knife left unused rusts; water that never flows stagnates. Learning is work for the mind—once you persist, it becomes easier, and what seemed bitter turns sweet.

Some say: “I am too old to begin.” Confucius said that at fifteen he set his heart on learning; Zengzi said that even on his deathbed he had not abandoned learning. Shao Gongmiao began studying at fifty and was still praised. Age is no barrier if the will is firm.

Some say: “The world is chaotic; learning is useless.” On the contrary—when the age is troubled, the need for clear minds and solid principles is greater. In peaceful times, learning adorns life; in disorder, it preserves integrity and guides action. The sage-kings ruled through culture and ritual; in decline, those who kept learning were the ones who did not lose themselves.

Consider examples. Sun Shuao started poor and rose through ability and study. Yan Hui was poor yet delighted in the Way. Confucius wandered among states yet never stopped teaching. When King Wen was imprisoned at Youli, he composed the Changes; when Confucius was in straits between Chen and Cai, he still lectured to his disciples. Difficulty did not stop them.

Learning is not only for office or fame. It clarifies right and wrong, steadies emotion, widens judgment, and makes one useful to family and society. It refines character: without study, one easily follows appetite and anger; with study, one can align conduct with principle.

Methods matter. Do not scatter your mind on many things at once; choose worthy books and teachers. Do not seek quick display; deepen gradually. Do not memorize without understanding; ask until the meaning is clear. Do not boast of a little knowledge; compare yourself with the ancients and feel how much remains to learn.

Some study for show—fine words, no practice. That is not true learning. Real learning changes behavior: what you know, you do; what you teach others, you first uphold yourself.

Parents and elders should encourage the young, not indulge idleness. Teachers should demand sincerity, not flatter cleverness. Friends should remind one another, not compete in vanity.

Wealth and rank without learning often lead to ruin; poverty with learning can still command respect. A rich fool is pitied; a poor scholar may still be sought for counsel. Therefore the ancients valued books above mere property.

Do not despise small steps. A journey of a thousand li begins underfoot. Read a little each day; over years the store grows large. Write notes; review often; discuss with others—understanding deepens.

Do not be ashamed to ask. Confucius said that to know what you know and to know what you do not know is knowledge. Pretending to understand blocks progress.

Do not envy those who seem naturally quick. Their quickness without perseverance fades; your steady effort may surpass them in the end.

In learning the Way and virtue (Dao and De), the same rule applies: clarify the mind, reduce selfish desire, practice sincerity and humility. External study without inner cultivation is empty; inner intent without external learning lacks form. Nature and life, principle and practice, should be cultivated together—this is what “dual cultivation of nature and life” (xingming shuangxiu) points to in a broader sense for the person of aspiration.

When you meet setbacks—failed exams, ridicule, poverty—do not take them as proof that study is worthless. Use them to test your resolve. The noble person is firm in difficulty; the petty person gives up at the first obstacle.

When you meet success—praise, promotion, ease—do not become arrogant. Success without continued learning leads to decline. The ancients feared complacency at the height of fortune.

In summary: Heaven sets the outer frame; the person fills it through effort. Learning is the chief means of that effort. It is not a ornament for the idle, nor a tool only for the ambitious. It is how human nature is fulfilled, how society is ordered, and how the individual faces fate without surrendering to laziness or despair.

Therefore I write this chapter to encourage diligent study—not to flatter the reader, but to speak plainly: if you wish to stand firm in the world, to be clear in mind, useful to others, and at peace with yourself when you look back on your life, there is no better path than to learn, and to keep learning, until your last day.

May those who read this take up books with renewed heart, endure the labor of thought, and find that what they gain inwardly is worth more than what fortune alone could give. Thus the work of encouragement is complete.

Ge Hong said: The purpose of learning is to clarify one’s innate nature and grasp the Way of principle, and to cast off the dust and idle thoughts in the mind. Like refining ore through carving and polishing, one hones oneself, dispels dullness and ignorance, awakens intelligence, and allows one’s plain inner substance to be adorned and nourished. Learning also enables one to discern the past and foresee the future, to range widely through knowledge, and to bring one’s studies to fruition. Whether one looks up at the heavens or down at the myriad things, nothing lies outside learning; in handling affairs and grasping the art of governing, one thereby acquires the knowledge needed. In advancing, one can serve the state; in withdrawing, one can preserve oneself.

Thus the sages and worthies have none who did not apply themselves to learning: they toiled morning and evening, and even when life was near its end they did not lay aside their studies; even under hunger and cold, in danger and hardship, they did not stop. Was this because they sought something from the world of their day? Truly it was because by nature they loved learning.

Even shallow arts such as carving and painting, and skills easy to master such as archery, charioteering, and horsemanship, still require repeated practice before one gradually masters them. How much more so the broad and profound principles of human affairs, the lofty truths of virtue and the Way, and the remote, subtle patterns of yin-yang transformation and the forms of ghosts and spirits—things that are indeed not understood from birth. Though silk is white by nature, without dyeing it will not show bright color; though food has sweetness in itself, without seasoning it is hard to make delicious. Jade without carving will not reveal a radiance that lights the night sky; cinnabar, indigo, and other pigments without preparation cannot be fashioned into a blade as fine as Chunjun. Fire, unless drilled for, will not ignite; unless fanned, it will not blaze strongly. Water, unless channeled, will not flow; unless gathered, it will not become deep and vast. Therefore, though capacity rests in the person, achievement depends on later learning and refinement.

Only when one ascends Langfeng—the legendary immortal peak—and one’s hand reaches Chenji, the morning pole of heaven, does one know how dim and narrow is the world of the well and valley. Only after reading through the Seven Classics and studying the books of the hundred schools of the Masters does one feel how cramped and ignorant it is to stand facing a wall. To seek knowledge without learning is like wanting fish but having no net: however hard one tries in mind, one will gain nothing. To learn widely and investigate affairs is like traveling with the wind at one’s back—the body need not labor excessively yet one goes far.

When powder and ink are ready, Xi Shi grows more beautiful still, and Su Liu can hide her ugliness. When classical learning runs deep, the quick-witted understand affairs clearly, and the slow and dull also awaken. Catalpa wood may tower into the clouds, yet without the design and craft of Lu Ban, the legendary master builder, it cannot be called a terrace or pavilion. Though one’s nature be open and keen, if one does not know how to judge good and evil within the great norms of human relations, one cannot be called a gentleman.

High towers and lofty pavilions must rise into the clouds, yet they cannot rest on empty imagining alone—they must be designed and built through the work of Lu Ban, the famed craftsman of antiquity. A person may be open and upright by nature, yet that alone does not make one a junzi (exemplary person); one must also know how to distinguish great principle from ethical good and evil. To travel a thousand li in a single day, one must rely on swift horses that run as if chasing their own shadow; to cross raging waters and reach the far shore, one must depend on boats and oars. To know the vast world beyond one’s door without leaving home, one must go through the written classics; to probe subtle and hidden principles without exhausting the spirit, one must receive guidance from a clear-sighted teacher.

Thus red and green dyes can change the color of white silk, and instruction and admonition can change those who are still in darkness. When clouds that block the light are parted and brightness shines forth, the forms of the myriad things all stand revealed; when bamboo slips and silk texts are spread open to examine past and present, the reasons of heaven and earth hide nothing. Whether matters of spirits and ghosts or affairs among people—all can be understood through this.

Clay and ochre can be worked until they are hard as gold and jade; bent wood can be shaped to fit square and line; all kinds of wild beasts can be trained to march in formation, and domestic animals can learn advance and retreat; fish in the water can be startled by sound, and stones launched from mechanisms can respond to human sincerity. How much more so for the human body, which possesses the Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, ritual, wisdom, trustworthiness) and is the most spiritually endowed among the ten thousand things?

A team of four horses that can bow and rise, advance and retreat—that is the effect of teaching and training; fierce birds that strike in attack can also be trained until they are tame. They belong to the same kind as ordinary horses and wild hawks: some become honored through refinement and instruction, others remain lowly by keeping their raw nature. Water in a ditch, flowing without cease, will eventually merge into the great sea; if one keeps adding basket after basket of earth without stopping, one will eventually pile an exceedingly high mountain. When the great river runs in full flood, even small fish and shrimp can swim with the current; when learning accumulates day after day, virtue can be established and principle brought to completion—only then may one rest.

(Missing or corrupt characters appear in the original at this point; the following sense can still be made out.) Must one dream of Confucius or the Duke of Zhou before one can loosen the bonds of confusion and obscurity? In former times Zhong You (Confucius’s disciple Zilu) wore a cap shaped like a cock, adorned his belt, and wore a cicada-shaped ornament; he came before Confucius with sword in hand and even drew the sword to dance. He praised the tough bamboo of the southern mountains and wished to act according to a stubborn, unyielding nature. Confucius, skilled at gradual guidance, transformed him through virtue—and in the end he became a disciple who had truly learned and entered the higher reaches of the Master’s gate, standing among the outstanding figures of Confucius’s “Four Categories” (groupings by virtue, speech, government, and culture). Zizhang was once regarded as crude, yet he too could become clear and penetrating, gathering many men of outstanding talent.

As one gradually absorbs Daoist teaching, one can grow into a scholar of real standing—even meeting royalty as an equal in courtesy—far more than merely escaping mediocrity. Thus the wise lament how brief life’s sojourn in the world is, and fear dying without leaving a name. They take to heart the deep lesson that to hear the Dao in the morning is to face death without regret, and understand that penetrating the subtle is not given to everyone. They heed the warning of the impending fall, know that without good intent one drifts into confusion, neither idling the whole day nor wasting a single moment. They take the ceaseless flow of water as their model to press forward, and sigh that time flies like a white colt glimpsed through a door crack.

They drop idle distractions that do not matter, cut back the petty business of ordinary life, wash away anxious thoughts of poverty, and also let go of excessive craving. They stop hunting, gambling, and similar pastimes, and correct lazy habits such as sleeping by day or dozing in a chair. Seeing that empty dreaming achieves nothing, they rouse themselves and walk the path of sages. They add to knowledge through study, clarify principle through inquiry, deepen virtue and cultivate learning, and review the old to gain the new.

The Duke of Zhou was a sage, yet still read many chapters every day; Confucius had outstanding natural gifts, yet wore through the thongs of his bamboo slips many times from constant reading. Mozi’s learning ran so deep his books filled cartloads; Dong Zhongshu was so famed for study that he did not even look at his garden while reading. Ni Kuan carried classics to the fields; Lu Sheng cut rushes to write on; Huang Ba studied even while wearing the cangue; Ning Qi labored day and night with redoubled effort.

Therefore they could probe the depths of the Great Dao and examine subtle doctrines thoroughly. To them ten thousand ages seem as if before their eyes; the eight directions of the world are as familiar as their own courtyard. They observe the waxing and waning of sun, moon, and the five planets and infer the patterns of heaven and earth; they discern how rise and decline will come and test gain and loss against the past; they have the myriad things clear in mind and can read how affairs will unfold from signs not yet visible. Thus they achieve lofty virtue and great undertakings, stand at the head of their age, and leave a fine name that does not end.

Moreover, when they heard the omen of the Shangyang bird, they prepared in advance for flooding…

When one knows that the appearance of the shangyang bird warns of impending floods; when one asks about the bird-stone projectile and learns of the killing qi of the east; when one inquires of others about the shape, color, and taste of ping fruit, or asks about the earth dog, and thereby recognizes the grave sheep; when one reads the Lingbao scripture and learns of matters hidden in the mountains; when one sees the broken sacrificial stand and can speak of the special carriage; when one observes the lodges Li and Bi and can distinguish the signs of yin-yang and the seasons; when one sees bush crickets chirping in winter and perceives that the intercalary month has been wrongly set—what is miraculous about any of this? It is simply what has been learned.

Even children's rhymes can help the sage understand things; how much more so books as rich in content as the Sanfen and Basuo? People's native talent is high or low, and their capacity for thought and understanding long or short. Some understand early and achieve something while still young; others need repeated teaching before they grasp it at last. Those who grasp quickly and review diligently are like swift horses; those who understand slowly and awaken late are like quails and magpies. A swift horse may gallop a thousand li and outpace flying scenery, yet once it stops and refuses to go on, its steps advance no farther. Quails and magpies may fly only a short stretch each time, yet if they keep going without rest, they too can cross mountains and marshes. The same holds for quick and slow minds in learning.

Generally, in youth the will is single-minded and what is learned is not easily forgotten; in later years the spirit scatters easily and what was studied is easily lost. Therefore one should study while young, keeping the mind concentrated; in time habit forms, and what is learned becomes as natural as innate disposition. As for those of exceptional talent, even if in their prime they meet misfortune and lose their chance for a time, they may still gain anew in later years. From this it is clear that good fields, even if sown late, still surpass a whole year left fallow. The comparison to lighting with sunlight is apt.

The times are hard, Confucian teaching declines, and the institutions and standards handed down by King Wen and King Wu of Zhou seem on the verge of withering away. Some indulge in sound and color; some rush about for fame and profit. Those who are poor yet devote themselves to the Six Arts—even with the gifts of a Ziyou or a Zixia—may be suppressed and buried in obscurity until death; those who attach themselves to the powerful and ride their rise may linger in high office in apparent success though their talent is ordinary. Those who abandon the root and chase the branches are called diligent in cultivation; those who bury themselves in the classics and seek inner cultivation are instead said to be recluses who shun office, pedantic and out of step with the times. Thus true learning and self-cultivation find no support and no esteem.

Those who mount the phoenix’s wings by borrowing the wind’s momentum may rise, even with mediocre endowment, as if to the clouds. People who abandon the root and chase the branches mistake that for diligent cultivation; those who shut themselves in to read the classics and seek inner refinement are called instead worldly drifters, pedantic and unenlightened. Then everyone hurries in toil—through rain and dust, frost and ice—pockets stuffed with money, hands clutching treasure, straining to gather lean or fat things, all to take crooked, easy shortcuts and hope to sow in the morning and harvest by evening.

As for those who close the door to read in peace, who roam ancient texts in the spirit, probe deep meaning, trace hidden tracks of the Way, taste the Great Way and dwell in quiet—who can firmly set an unshakable integrity and show noble character in hard times, who neither read the world’s fashion to choose their path nor drift with the crowd—such people are truly rare. Those who urgently chase promotion and rank, who grow anxious when they fail to advance—how would they give up the broad, easy road to quick distinction and hold to a narrow path that is hard and may lead nowhere?

That is precisely why there is no one “on the river,” and why the poem “Your Collar” was written. Pity for the world brings long sighs; concern for the Way brings silent grief.

Cold and heat alternate; when hardship reaches its limit, fortune turns. Civil and military values take turns in favor—this is a constant pattern. May the bandits all be swept away; renewal be now; sun, moon, and stars keep their courses; the old realm shine anew. Extend heaven’s grace; wash away long-standing abuses; stir the great furnace of the Nine Yang; turn the mighty wheel of cosmic creation; establish subtle law to order the ten thousand things. Teach and temper all kinds of people so outstanding talent may be formed; scour away accumulated grime, cast off perversity, and return to the right path.

Sheathe weapons and ready the bow; establish the Biyong and schools, gather the sons of the realm, refine civil virtue, and spread a teaching voice clear as gold and jade. Give hidden rising talent the chance of wind and cloud; summon recluses in the hills with full courtesy; let the phoenix of hidden excellence beat its wings in clarity, let fine steeds run a thousand li. Let those who hoard talent yet languish in obscurity, who read widely yet long lie silent—like Lord Shen and Master Fu—be honored by the court: envoys sent with black and crimson silks to welcome them, carts trimmed with rush grass to bring them to court, so they may release pent grievance, state the stand they have always held, make themselves known, and put their Way into practice.

May the sage era inherit the lofty governance of Tang Yao and Yu Shun, follow the broad path of great peace, spread subtle teaching throughout the realm, and extend benevolent influence in every direction. When the five punishments are set aside, songs of praise arise; when harmonious qi blends, the grain bears full ears—is this not a fine sight?

The worthy arrive in carts with wheels wrapped in rush (a mark of honoring sages), speak what has long been pent up, set forth plain principles, make themselves known, and practice their way. If this can be done, the realm may know great peace.

Under the Second Emperor of Qin, Confucian learning was not valued; the way of the former sages was abandoned in favor of harsh penal law. The people saw no kindness, only heard of killing. Thus Qin, though visited by signs of retribution, did not repent or find the right path; on the brink of ruin it did not know how to save itself, and finally fell from a height into an abyss beyond reckoning. Can those high or low fail to take this as a warning?

End of Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, fascicle 3.

Collation note by the New Daozang compilation group: certain characters in the original text were emended according to the critical edition.

Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, fascicle 4: “Chongjiao” (Exalting Education).

Ge Hong, styled Baopuzi, said: If you fix your eyes only on the fine hairs of autumn, you will miss the splendor of the broad sky; if you give all your mind to petty affairs, you will never grasp the vast depth of Confucian and Daoist learning. Those who drown themselves in foul-smelling things forget the fragrance of sweet herbs; those mesmerized by what looms large before them find it hard to turn back. Timber that has been shaped by rule and measure does not warp or split; people who accept instruction in the Way do not stray onto crooked paths. For cultivating the self and pursuing study, nothing surpasses learning. Learning must be broad, and the key to breadth is unwavering persistence; the key to persistence is a firm will. When the will is unsteady, the poor busy themselves with making a living, and the rich easily sink into comfort and pleasure.

Thus those with wide vision and deep learning appear only once in a long while, while the shallow-minded, as if facing a blank wall, are everywhere. If ordinary scholars worked the fields by day to support themselves and read by lamplight at night, and if officials at court could steal moments from feasts to read books that exhort good and warn against evil, then no one would be narrow in outlook, and talents like Ziyou and Zia among Confucius’s disciples would not be lacking.

There are also people driven by hunger and cold who can barely keep body and soul together with plain food, battered by wind and frost, unable even to eat coarse grain. They have no money to study under a teacher, while urgent livelihood presses their household. Put down the plow and the farm work goes undone; pick up a book and the family’s support suffers. When such people fail to finish their studies, they may be forgiven. It is like a thousand-li steed harnessed to a salt cart, or ore bearing red gold that never reaches a master smith such as Ou Yezi for smelting.

As for young nobles, life is easy. They pass their days in idleness among splendid dress, ignorant of the toil of sowing and reaping. They tire of gaudy ornament, grow weary of the sensuous music of Zheng and Wei, are surfeited with orchid and musk, and sated with rich, refined food. In winter they wear luxurious sable and fox fur; in summer, light gauze. They ride in light, costly carriages abroad and feast in lavish halls at home. They paint pillars and beams in red and green and endlessly fill chests with treasures; they take pleasure in alluring song and dance, drown in strong wine, often lead drinking bouts, and likewise lead at gambling and chess.

They neither understand the classics nor treat scholars as worth more than weeds. When they speak or write, they lack grounding in the classics and misattribute their examples; in lofty talk they collapse as soon as debate begins; faced with hard questions they grow as flustered and haggard as the aged. Even if they can still tell beans from wheat, how much difference is there between them and the blind and deaf?

According to Baopuzi: It is said that the heir to the throne must enter the Taixue (Imperial Academy), follow teachers to seek learning and the Way, and be enrolled among the guozi to receive education. One must first know how to be a subject before one can be a ruler; first know how to be a son before one can be a father. Therefore one learns first, then holds office. If one takes charge of affairs without prior study, it is like grasping a knife without knowing how to use it—one ends up harming oneself. This is precisely what Zheng Qiao lamented.

To indulge one’s feelings and desires is not to qualify as a worthy person. Yet some sons of the powerful and noble are raised in the inner palace, nursed by women, and never personally know worry or toil. Some have not yet left the cradle when they already hold high rank; as soon as they can wear cap and robes, they occupy prominent posts. They hold the power of life and death and control the rise and fall of officials; people’s honor and disgrace depend on their rewards and punishments, and people’s gain and loss are swayed by their words.

Around them love and hate, slander and praise constantly swirl. Suspicion and pretense among people are often hard to tell from truth; some seize the moment to invent trouble out of nothing, others use long-standing trust to deceive with fine words. The twists of mutual provocation and framed accusations are endlessly varied—even a subtle mind can hardly reckon them all, and ink alone cannot fully record them. Without learning and practical experience, how can one distinguish right from wrong and true from false, or grasp the gains and losses in the conduct of people past and present? If one relies only on one’s own groping, with no models or warnings, how can one avoid disasters like a nest overturning or a cart capsizing?

Ancient worthies, though they sat in high place, did not forget danger. Wishing their children to receive good instruction, they painstakingly trained and urged them, not letting them walk crooked or hypocritical paths; they chose worthy teachers and good friends for them, so they would be shaped by influence; they pressed them to read widely and used stories of success and failure to enlighten them, letting them examine the past to infer the future and observe others to know themselves.

They guided their children on the upright path and bound their conduct with rules, so the children remained cautious and alert—as if a ten-thousand-foot abyss hung beneath their feet, or as if they rode at full gallop on thin ice. Only thus could they have few regrets and faults, preserve the right Way, and obtain good fortune.

In former times, the Dou brothers benefited from the blessings of their ancestors’ teachings, while Huo Yu brought disaster upon himself through reckless indulgence; the kings of Zhongshan and Dongping found stability through their love of classical learning, while Prince Yan the Assassin fell into peril by refusing to study—as if facing a blank wall. The experiences of those who came before are a clear mirror for the present. Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou, influenced by Yi Yin and Lü Shang (ministers who assisted their rulers), saw their enterprises rise swiftly; Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang, influenced by Zhi and Chong (treacherous ministers), perished in short order.

In choosing friends and teachers, one should be especially careful and discerning. One ought to select people who are poor in circumstances but upright in character: they support themselves through hardship and earn respect by not following the crowd. If they are versed in the classics, like Dong Zhongshu or Huan Rong; firm and righteous in disposition, like Gong Sui or Wang Ji; and can daily discuss the fundamental principles of loyalty and filial piety, and soberly point out the patterns of rise and fall, success and failure—helping one wash away filth, restrain wayward thoughts, and correct deviations—then the student should restrain selfish desires, follow proper standards, and accept instruction in beneficial conduct.

It was not so in the late Han and the final years of Wu. They valued noble lineage and ostentation in choosing people, and appointed those who rose through factional flattery and empty reputation. The titles of friend and teacher existed, but there was no real work of mending faults or correcting conduct. This was not merely useless—it was harmful. Thus what they discussed was not morality, and whom they recommended was not the loyal and beneficial. They spoke only of novel tunes and flashy beauty: judging whether songs were clear or muddy, pipes and strings long or short; appraising dogs and horses, places for pleasure outings; comparing the finery of carriages, the roughness or fineness of jade carving; arguing over skill at pitch-pot and chupu (ancient gambling games), the wins and losses of hunting and brawling; rating courtesans’ looks and talents; nitpicking whether clothes were vulgar; disputing whether carriages were good or bad; and also talking of archery and swordsmanship. They gathered odd characters and collected strange tales, until topics knew no bounds—and excess and indulgence deepened day by day.

When it came to palaces, they took distant models from the jade terraces and crystal chambers of legend, and nearby ones from the Epang Palace and the Linsguang Palace. A thousand gates and ten thousand rooms still seemed too cramped; the Kunming Pool and the Taiye Pool felt too shallow and small. They mocked thatched cottages as shabby and undignified, and found earthen steps crude and stiff. The people’s strength was drained on corvée projects, and their savings squandered on what was not urgently needed: heaping earth into hills in imitation of Mount Song and Mount Huo, digging channels in imitation of the nine rivers. They climbed lofty towers that pierced the clouds and opened fine windows that seemed to reach the sky itself.

Lewd music clamored and dazed the mind; waves of dancing sleeves dazzled the eye. Tunes from Poshang and Beili played in turn, song and dance unbroken—some shouting, some singing full voice—until day and night were reversed. People sank into drink and pleasure, lingering in the rhythm of strings.

Sometimes they hung green canopies and rode out to hunt fierce beasts; they drove swift horses over dangerous ground and set servants to work under the blazing sun. They traveled by torchlight and returned only when the stars had risen. Government fell into neglect with no one to set it right; rewards and punishments were shelved and lost their force.

Sometimes they boarded ornate boats on vast waters, cast nets in jade-green rivers, dropped fragrant bait into deep pools, and sang boat songs on clear water; they shot low-flying wild geese with high strung arrows and pulled hidden fish from the depths with sunken lines. At other times they spread nets in mountain forests and closed in on marshes and lakes; they lined red hunting banners in thick grass, galloped fast horses on the plain, set hounds on cunning beasts, flew light hawks at birds, killed mad rhinoceros with powerful crossbows, and ran bears and tigers through with long halberds.

Such amusements left them unsatisfied year after year, unceased for many years. They also held feasts through the four seasons—partings and celebrations—inviting close guests who came to plan affairs and receiving visitors bearing gifts. Worldly business was endless, so upright and refined custom gradually faded, the wind of indulgent play grew heavier, and the distance from Confucian learning widened.

Those who could see the logic of rise and decline, pull themselves free from drowning in pleasure, avoid the dangerous path that corrupts virtue, and walk the great Way that benefits long-term governance of the realm were pitifully few. Alas—that is why those who could preserve the state and stabilize the household were so rare, while the events that brought overturn, turmoil, and bloodshed too numerous to count were beyond counting.

When enlightened sage rulers hold the throne today, those who can lift people out of degradation and hardship, turn them away from the perilous path that corrupts De (virtue), and guide them onto the great Dao of lasting security are exceedingly few. Alas! That is why examples of states preserved and households at peace are so rare, while cases of states overturned and people mourning amid flowing blood are beyond counting.

When enlightened sage rulers hold the throne today, they examine the ancient ways of governance to aid the world, strengthen the dikes against breach and flood, and distinguish clearly between praise and censure so that encouragement and warning are plain. One would expect the imperial clan, noble lineages, and families long prominent and wealthy to vie in honoring Confucian learning, to restrain their chase after literary ornament, to treat the teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi as secondary, and to devote themselves to the upright Dao set forth in the Six Classics of Confucianism.

When heaven and earth first separated, the clear and light qi rose upward and the turbid and heavy qi sank downward, and from this the order of high and low, noble and humble became visible. The ancient sages took heaven and earth and the two forces of yin and yang as their model and established the way of the ruler; they also set up offices and divided responsibilities so that governance of the state could reach harmony and flourishing.

As ruler, one must first cultivate oneself and serve as an example for all under heaven; reject faction and partiality and follow the impartial royal way; set aside personal feelings and display utmost fairness, and with a heart as broad as heaven and earth embrace all things. After distinguishing what is true and false in the outer world, one must also turn inward and reflect on oneself; when hearing affairs from every quarter, the ears must be keen and clear, and one must also be good at self-examination.

The ruler should guide good conduct as a level directs water, and dismiss wrongdoing as a balance weighs heavy and light; welcome the virtuous, block what goes against the right way, employ the capable, and show no favoritism to the close. Let the compass fully perform its role in drawing circles, the square fully measure what is straight and cornered, the plumb line align what is straight, and the axe and adze each fulfill their cutting and shaping; so that things each find their use and people of talent each find fitting appointment.

Names must be checked against reality, government must be inspected often, and the people must be cared for; establish norms as standards the people can follow, decide praise and blame with care to show the direction of reward and punishment; clarify laws and prevent overstepping authority; examine right and wrong in detail so that what is and is not clear does not lead to mishandling. Rewards must fit reason—those who violate principle must not profit by luck; deprivation or punishment must also have grounds and win broad acceptance.

In governing affairs, use the Six Arts (rites, music, archery, charioteering, literacy, and numbers) for cultivation, take loyalty and trust as the standard, govern with kindness and harmony, and then align order with ritual and penal law. Promote those of low station who have virtue and talent so the suppressed can rise; encourage upright conduct so good and evil can be distinguished. Only then will people not take crooked paths in action nor overstep their proper roles in work.

Those who serve at court and govern the people must not encroach on another official’s duties or overstep their scope; those ordered to campaign must not shrink from danger or spare their own lives to evade the mission. Treat those nearby well to win the distant, and through civil refinement and good order draw those willing to submit.

To enable the people to store up wealth and grain, to open broad paths for cultivating virtue, and to shut out craftiness and fraud, punishments must be clearly defined, laws and regulations put in order, and cases heard with fairness and careful judgment. When instruction is sincere and government is at peace, minor faults and shortcomings in people should be tolerated; the five regular teachings—righteousness in fathers, kindness in mothers, friendliness among elder brothers, respect among younger brothers, and filial piety in sons—should likewise rest on a foundation of generosity.

Outwardly, civil and military officials should assist in administration; inwardly, royal kin and relatives should serve as a bulwark for the state, so that those near and those far support one another, like foliage and trunk leaning on each other. Then, though branches and leaves grow lush, the root is not harmed; though water runs strong, it does not turn away from its source. With the foundation of the state firm as bedrock and high mountains, others’ covetous designs can be held in check.

When the Three Miao were destroyed, it showed that one cannot rely on rivers and natural barriers; when perilous strongholds were lost, it showed that steep terrain alone is no safe dependence. The Yangtze and Han still flow, yet mighty Chu was once taken captive and disgraced; Jian’ge remains strategically steep, yet Gongsun Shu was wiped out in defeat. Steep ranges such as the Four Peaks and Mount Santu did not forever belong to one lineage; stout walls and deep moats are inferior to harmony among the people. The state’s shield lies beyond the four seas; it does not depend on mountains and rivers as defenses.

For this reason the wise ruler always feels that vigilance is not enough, and when amending faults fears acting too late. Even when plans have already succeeded, he still thinks of danger and does not slacken; even after victory and the widening of the realm, he still guards against complacency and reflects carefully at night.

The ruler should cover all things like the heavens and bear all living beings like the earth; he should use clarity to bring the subtle to light, think far ahead, and guard against trouble before it appears. In governing he should nurture as gently as spring sunlight and also order all things as sternly as autumn frost. He should listen to counsel, compare differing views, weigh and judge what people say with fairness; humble himself and hear the full truth from below; and yield merit to others, thereby encouraging those who come after.

By using methods to guide the ministers, he can draw out their service from beginning to end; by using institutions to regulate affairs, he can bring what was uneven into proper order. The ruler should be lofty and hard to fathom, like Mount Langfeng—the legendary immortal peak—suspended aloft, so that those below cannot easily measure his depth; and he should be deep and inscrutable, like a cliff ten thousand fathoms high, so that even close ministers cannot take his measure by more or less. Then his strategy and wisdom can be sustained, and the talents of all officials can be fully employed.

My authority and influence know no bounds, yet what others may hold in power and weight remains limited. When issuing commands, one should carry the force of thunder, yet never let crooked argument turn one from the right path. When establishing laws and institutions, one should be as clear and upright as the sun, moon, and stars hanging in the sky, never bending facts to personal likes or dislikes. Plan on a grand and far-reaching scale, like heavy clouds massing high; hold to the right way and carry out affairs of state, like Mount Song and Mount Tai rooted firm in the earth.

Before fortune or misfortune has yet appeared, judge in advance how things will turn; when one hears clever words, examine whether blame or praise is trustworthy. Do not let honest simplicity be ruined by ornate pretense; do not let a single course of government be split into opposing camps. Even when one may decide alone, still listen widely to the people’s views; even when one is generous and forbearing, still guard against slander that slowly seeps into the heart.

When the people suffer hunger and cold, worry for them and look to your own responsibility; when the people commit wrongs, also take the blame upon yourself. When auspicious signs appear, remember that they come from divine protection; when heaven sends wrath and disaster, be like King Tang of Shang praying for rain in the mulberry grove—take the fault upon yourself. When change is needed, do not shrink from altering old ways; when you find you were wrong before, do not be ashamed to turn back and set things right.

Be as alert to hidden ills as a tiger watching all around; examine what was overlooked with the calm steadiness of a qilin standing at rest. If there are no old men on the road beating the clod and singing in contentment, you should not be satisfied with hearing only a chorus of harmony; if the people lack grain, you should not feast on a table piled with delicacies.

Seated high in a lofty pavilion as if above the seasons of heaven, think of the laborers worn out by building it; enjoying soft, sweet food, worry whether the farming season is being neglected. Listening to strings and pipes and lost in banquets and pleasure, be on guard against excess in ease; seeing splendid adornment, remember that the people may be bearing heavy taxes.

Take as models Yao (called Fangxun) in his coarse hemp robe and Duke Wen of Wei in plain silk, and look back to the Xia rulers who lived in simple halls. Remember how Emperor Wen of Han gave up building a viewing terrace, and take warning from King Ling of Chu, whose Zhanghua Terrace brought ruin, and from Qin Shihuang, whose Epang Palace was followed by the swift fall of the dynasty. When you swear an oath, ask whether you have ever broken faith with those of your time; when you sink into music and pleasure, warn yourself not to become another Baosi or Daji, bewildering the ruler.

Before sending armies to war, weigh your strength and the right moment, and do not let the people cry out in grief and resentment because of battle; when life and death are at stake, set private feeling aside and follow what is just, and do not let the innocent die with a grievance. Take as warnings the stories of Tong Bo and Du Bo, wrongly slain, and remember too the old tale of one who cried out in protest when falsely accused—even likened to a pig. When setting aside a legitimate wife or heir, guard against the great delusion into which Duke Xian of Jin fell through his favor for Li Ji.

Within a hundred li, people weep because of injustice. When punishing or executing, weigh the circumstances of the case; do not let anyone end like Wu Zixu—who was driven to suicide in the Spring and Autumn period and, in legend, was sewn into a “owl-skin” bag and cast into the river—bearing a wrong to the grave. Take the story of Tong Bo killing Du Bo as a warning, and remember the tradition of the wronged crying out and holding the ruler to account. When deposing a legitimate heir, beware the great error of Duke Xian of Jin; when elevating a son by a concubine as successor, recall how Liu Biao’s choice broke the ancestral line.

On the hunt, be willing to “lose the game and gain the worthy,” and understand the mercy in spreading the net and leaving one side open. If you favor a pet minister, think of the mockery that comes from “bees in the sleeve” and the disaster wrought by Zhao Feiyan’s exclusive favor. If you monopolize appointments, heed Zhao Gao pointing at a deer and calling it a horse, and Gong Xian’s driving off the upright. When taking counsel, remember how Emperor Gaozu of Han listened openly, and also how Emperor Jing’s execution of Chao Cuo brought calamity in its train.

When offering delicacies, keep at a distance from Yidi, the legendary master of wine. Flattering people and indulging them permissively breeds disorders like those of the Luan and Qing clans. Root out sycophants like the “steamed child” tale, and draw near to kindness like releasing the deer; take the parable of the white dragon turned fish, shot by a man who did not know what he was, as a warning against rash self-exposure to danger; observe the plight of the weak, and restrain greedy desire. Guard against “human swine” horrors in the palace—the atrocity Lü Hou inflicted on Consort Qi—and stop demanding sweat-blood horses from distant frontiers.

Remove vicious dogs to prevent the trouble of drunken brawls; pay for a horse’s bones to summon a thousand-li steed. When the carriage passes, salute the angry frog—to encourage boldness; give the mantis a wide berth—to stir martial spirit. Hear Zhen Hui’s blunt remonstrance, and make room for Bao Shen’s loyal advice. Do not spend your mind on useless trivia at belly and back; grasp the “six pinions”—the strong wings by which a bird soars—and use them to rise into the sky.

Boil the honey-tongued flatterer, so the steward’s honest words can be heard in peace; break the crooked like Wan and Ruo, so the good name of the Earl of Liang can shine. Banish Dan Ji to dispel the harm of lust for beauty; keep Zi Xia at a distance to cut off the delusion of favor born from “the leftover peach.” Hide the fish in the deep pool, and hold firm the strong handle of power. Do not shrink from the bother of moving firewood away from the stove in time, lest the fire spread and burn everything to ash.

Temper people’s hearts with a sense of shame and honor, and make clear the standards by which merit is judged and rewards and punishments applied. In anger, do not exceed the law to tyrannize; in joy, do not go beyond statute to heap largesse.

Toward those one favors, one must still restrain private affection; when guilt is established, pardon is not granted. Toward those one dislikes, if they do good or achieve merit, that must not be erased. Receive loyal counsel with humility; do not conceal oneself from harsh criticism. Seek criticism broadly; even when words are indirect and tactful, do not refuse them. Overlook small faults and employ strengths; do not fixate on present lapses but remember long-term achievements. Thus Cao Hui and Meng Ming could reform and later build merit; Wei Shang and Zhang Chang could wash away disgrace and establish deeds.

Guan Zhong, who once wounded Duke Huan of Qi with a barbed arrow, still went on to assist him in achieving hegemony; Li Zuoche, once a captive, after release offered a brilliant strategy to stop the war. Then birds as foul as owls could transform into auspicious mandarin ducks; the deceitful could turn into loyal subjects; rich crops could grow on salty soil, and luminous pearls could emerge from mud. Each person displayed talent and shared in governance, and the nine kinds of achievement were harmoniously realized.

The ruler humbly consulted talented teachers and friends, honored and served the aged, thereby deepening the wind of filial piety and brotherly respect. Hidden talent in deep waters came to admire and draw near; recluses in mountain forests gathered and attached themselves. Those with literary grace and strategy assisted at court; the bold and martial defended against enemies abroad. When policy above was well ordered, those below gave their hearts in allegiance; when kindness was practiced nearby, virtue and grace spread far. The worthy exerted themselves in their posts; among the people, even in the fields, they yielded to one another in courtesy.

Thus harsh, tightly woven laws were abolished, and a pure, upright atmosphere was revived. Wheels were wrapped in rush matting and jade silks sent as invitations to summon hidden worthies from the countryside; many worthy ministers assembled to debate the gains and losses of governing the realm. Redundant sheep-tending officials were reduced, and even the finest wine was no longer banned from brewing. Paths of benevolence, righteousness, humility, and yielding were opened; the wind of scrambling for fame and profit was blocked. Upright, faithful conduct was honored; plain, Dao-holding character was promoted. Those who attached themselves to virtuous rule were like tender new grass rejoicing in sweet rain; those who came to give their hearts were like pooled water on the ground flowing into a great river. The people rested content under good government, like green leaves clinging to a tall branch; foreign peoples looked up and submitted, like stars circling the pole star.

Therefore the sun, moon, and five planets did not stray from their celestial patterns, and cold, heat, and the seasons did not fall into disorder. The four auspicious creatures appeared together; luminous fungi flourished; sweet dew fell from heaven; fine grain grew abundantly and filled the granaries. Danba, the drought spirit, was driven from the divine waters; Xuanli, the baleful pestilence, was confined in the vast north.

In an ideal age of Great Peace, heaven and earth are settled; rivers do not boil or flood in strange ways, and cold and heat alternate in their proper seasons without disorder. The Four Auspicious Beasts (the traditional emblems of sage rule) all appear, and lingzhi mushrooms flourish bright and thick. Sweet dew falls from heaven; rich grain stalks sway and fill the granaries. Drought, plague, and other disasters are driven away, and fierce, evil influences are held in check.

Rivers no longer surge abnormally; the southern Ji (the star cluster once linked to stormy omens) grows quiet, and violent winds no longer flatten the crops. Nothing withers out of season, and people no longer cry out in grief. Prisons stand empty, and the five punishments (the classical penal framework) cease to be applied. Even places beyond the reach of court edicts and ritual teaching—people in felt and fur, dwellers in mountain forests, or fugitives on distant isles—all gladly submit, turn from old ways, and come home to order.

Moved by harmonious qi, lands reached only through many layers of translation send tribute: spirit birds are presented at court, and jade rings from the far west are offered in homage. Local leaders quickly turn to goodness, like clouds carried by a strong wind; remote regions heed commands, like an echo answering a voice. This is truly the height of a flourishing state and the model of rule associated with the Three Sovereigns and Five Empers (the legendary sage kings). Thus sacrifice in the ancestral temples can continue for long ages, and the royal house can thrive generation after generation.

When roots run deep, branches grow thick; when the people are at ease, the ruler is secure. Without Zaofu (the legendary master of charioteering) to train them, horses cannot gallop a thousand li; without a sage ruler like Tang Yao or Yu Shun, the people cannot attain Great Peace that matches heaven and earth in beauty. When horses are driven to exhaustion, they change temperament, break control, and bring fear; when the people are worn down, they easily scatter and rebel, and calamity inevitably spreads. How can the ruler not stay alert day and night, and not harbor caution and reckon with crisis?

If the ruler does not calmly reflect on order and chaos, rise and decline, and does not look closely at the signs that precede a fallen state, then even with eyes sharp enough to distinguish the finest detail at the farthest distance, hearing fine enough to tell every note apart, writing as polished as fine jade, martial skill to snap weapons in the palm, a mind stocked with ten thousand scrolls, and eloquence like a rushing river—he still cannot save the state from collapse. Why? Because he does not hold the root yet busies himself with branches; he drowns in tasks that belong to his ministers and does not grasp the fundamental principles of governing the realm.

If the ruler can truly be sparing and careful in conduct—as if facing a chasm or treading thin ice; in times of stability not forget sudden change, and while the state still stands not abandon fear of its end; take hold of the main rope to put the details in order and use the root principles of rule to lead all kinds of talent—then the state can endure in long stability.

Han Xin, Bai Qi, and other renowned generals exerted every effort to defeat enemy forces; Xiao He, Cao Can, and other worthy ministers applied their full talents to govern the realm. The ruler focused his own mind and will on resolutely accomplishing great undertakings, while his advisers thought together and put forward far-reaching, carefully considered plans. In this way, even if the ruler dwelt at ease in splendid palaces, strolled leisurely on lofty towers, kept his wine cups filled with fine wine, and had singers and dancers perform to their hearts’ content, he could still let his robes hang loose and delegate authority to the worthy, rest his head on a pillow while overseeing his officials as they carried out state affairs.

Why must one necessarily live in cramped, humble thatched huts, eat plain and tasteless coarse food, personally take on menial tasks such as guarding the gate, and bear bodily hardship before one can extend kindness to the people and make good government reach even beyond the seas?

Muddle-headed and foolish rulers were not like this. In governing, some were benevolent yet lacked decisiveness, mixing right with wrong: the upright went unrewarded, while the wicked went unpunished; others were harsh, violent, and pitiless, or relied on intimidation alone with no kindness or virtue, imposing punishments so heavy that they would not pardon even those whose guilt was slight. The foundations of the state were already exposed and unstable, as perilous as a nest built on a hanging curtain, yet they compared themselves to the sun in brilliance, believed their rule as secure as Mount Tai, thought that achieving enlightened virtue was not difficult, and looked down on those who were prudent and respectful.

Then the innocent and guiltless also suffered arbitrary punishment, while the ruler indulged only in displaying his power; the people saw no kindness and heard only news of slaughter. When appointing officials, they treated those who complied with their wishes as worthy talent; when promoting people, they favored those who were close and trusted. They entrusted important posts such as chief ministers to kinsmen who lacked talent and virtue; all who made arbitrary decisions and answered the ruler’s inquiries were flatterers.

Those they promoted and recommended were often kin and in-laws, near and far, without examining their abilities; those they trusted and relied on were shallow in talent and skilled at currying favor, while they despised upright and strong-minded men. When demoting and dismissing officials, they listened only to the crowd’s chorus of approval, without investigating according to the facts; when favoring and promoting officials, they relied solely on fine reputations, without assessing their performance in office.

Officials charged with government and governing the people, and generals who lead armies on campaign—some are corrupt and ruin the places where they serve; some pursue private gain and disturb the court; some are weak and incompetent and botch one affair after another; some are timid and shrink from battle, missing their chance. Many of them never know it until the end. The ruler cannot bring himself to dismiss them, yet keeps them close and in office, hoping they will eventually produce results. The outcome is that people of limited ability are loaded with responsibilities too heavy for them, and disaster follows. Those of outstanding talent and far-reaching insight who have no patron—some wear coarse cloth and keep to the margins of the court; some sink into hardship and never get to use their gifts. They hold to the Way in their hearts but can only stay silent; when they wish to act, they find no opening—so the state’s slide toward ruin happens again and again.

Rulers, moreover, do not read the warnings in the classics and spend their days sunk in feasts and pleasure. They raise lofty towers yet treat virtue lightly; expand pleasure gardens yet refuse to gather talent widely; dig deep ponds yet show little kindness or good faith; dote on dogs and horses yet hate frank counsel; prize pearls and jade yet treat strategy lightly; spend lavishly on fine clothes yet grudge benefits to the people; are slow to relieve distress yet quick to squeeze out wealth; love the hunt yet neglect farming; value amassing property yet treat people’s lives lightly; keep singers and dancers yet push away the learned and upright; richly reward favorites yet cold-shoulder soldiers and officers; drown in sensual delight and forget governance; feast and play first and only then turn to business; repeatedly conscript the people for harsh labor yet rarely reward or comfort them; squander great wealth on things not urgently needed and keep large numbers of animals that consume grain and meat.

When things reach this point, the state’s peril cannot be blamed on Heaven, and its weakness cannot be blamed on others. Fortune and misfortune, weal and woe, are invited by one’s own acts—were the achievements of King Tang and King Wu merely a lucky coincidence? In the past, King Wen of Zhou gave proper burial to unclaimed corpses, and people everywhere praised his humanity; King Zhou of Shang cut open Bi Gan’s heart, and people in all directions hated his cruelty. A ruler stands in full public view, and praise or blame arrives all the faster for it. The things on which success or failure in governing turn do not require many measures. When the ruler’s standing is high, hearts incline toward him—even distant peoples may give him their loyalty—but that loyalty cannot be won by empty words alone. When bad repute piles up, hearts even in the heartland scatter; then, when one speaks of rescue, it is already too late. Therefore a small good deed, even if it brings no obvious benefit, must still be done; a slight evil, even if it will not at once bring disaster, must still be removed. If the ruler indulges desire and pleasure for himself alone and does not share with all under heaven, then when trouble comes, no one will feel for him.

When the foundation is weakened while the upper structure is built ever higher, if one fails to notice that the base is sinking, the upper part will eventually collapse. Once overturn and ruin set in, no one can save the situation. Therefore, even when no disaster is yet visible, one must not delay in removing small evils.

If one indulges desire and seeks only personal pleasure, refusing to share ease with the people under heaven, when calamity strikes, no one will sympathize. At that point power slips from one’s hands, and authority that was only temporarily entrusted is gone for good. However hard the ruler toils, resources are exhausted; the people cannot bear it, resentment gathers below, and heaven’s anger descends from above.

Tian Chengzi plotted behind the curtain and seized Qi; Ji Chang (King Wen of Zhou) won the realm from the domain neighboring the Shang. Chen Sheng, Wu Guang, and others raised swords and cried out; Liu Bang, Xiang Yu, and others took up weapons and rose like a sudden gale. Assault ladders were set against lofty walls; sharp blades crossed outside the palace gates. Military force turned inward from within the palace, and the guard corps broke and scattered outside.

Only then did the ruler grieve and sigh, longing for sages from distant ages; he hurried to send men to invite recluses in the mountains and forests, admired Yi Yin and Lü Shang hiding on Mount Song, and sought out Sun Wu and Wu Qi living among the people. Yet even if he received their good counsel, there was nowhere to apply it; even if he wished for their clever plans, there was no one to ask. It was like a tall building already ablaze while one fetched water from the sea to fight the fire, or floodwater already inside the house while one went to a distant sandbar to build a boat.

Lofty reputation cannot be built on arrogance and stinginess; the fengshan rites on Mount Tai were not achieved by indulging desire. A sage ruler drives fast yet still fears he cannot catch up with those before him; a mediocre ruler walks slowly and holds the reins loosely, yet thinks himself superior to earlier generations. Some, though secure, still think of danger; some, though in peril, believe themselves at ease. Some, with achievement complete and the state settled, never slacken or neglect their duty; some, already as precarious as ribbons tied to a chariot banner or as a stack of eggs about to topple, still do not wake up.

Had there been no dissolute rulers like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang who drowned in desire and were overthrown, how could the clarity and success of wise rulers be shown? One should keep these lessons always in mind—only then is there hope of acting rightly.

End of Book Five, Baopuzi waipian (External Chapters).

The Baopu zi says: In the golden age of Tang and Yu, the rulers were clear-sighted about past and present and wise and virtuous, yet they still needed many ministers to assist them before they could achieve great deeds. When subordinates helped the ruler govern affairs, all undertakings could be completed smoothly; the court was orderly, each official fulfilled his duty, distant peoples did not raid the central lands, and there were auspicious signs such as phoenixes nesting in the palace.

The ruler is like the head of a person, and ministers are like the limbs. Though rank differs, in reality they depend on one another like one body. The ruler should weigh a minister’s capacity before assigning office, so that wrong appointments do not ruin government; ministers should also accept duties within their strength, lest failure in duty lead to dismissal.

Those who, like shadow and echo, only bow and obey are ministers who seek ease and hold salary without work. Those who dare resist mistaken orders and speak frankly to remonstrate, taking the realm’s stability as their charge, are the main force in assisting the ruler. Those who only read the ruler’s mind and flatter are sycophantic villains; those who correct the ruler’s faults and set errors right are the realm’s upright pillars.

A loyal minister, even at risk of punishment, should remonstrate to the full according to reason. If loyalty is doubted and straight counsel is not accepted, he may ask to leave office; if staying would mean useless death and would only add to the ruler’s faults, he may also withdraw. In conduct a minister should follow ancient statutes and daily observe the law; he must not allow private requests to interfere with public business, nor show favoritism when enforcing it. Punishments should be just—not excessive punishment from dislike of someone; rewards should be weighed carefully—not biased toward those close to him.

A minister should not decide alone, usurp power through office, or harbor corruption while pretending to be clean. While in office he should speak fully and correct faults; after leaving he should still recommend the worthy and not suppress others. He should rise early and sleep late, anxious whether affairs are settled; restrain himself and curb desire, as if driving a cart on thin ice. To offer strategy and recommend talent need not be proclaimed; gains against the Way must not be kept in mind.

In court service he should be straight as a whetstone or arrow shaft; in private he should keep pure integrity. In danger he should forget family and even life; when holding the scales and judging people he should be fair, without favoring kin. He should take as model the broad spirit of Xiao He, admire the resourceful plotting of Zhang Liang and Chen Ping, follow the wholehearted remonstrance of Zhou Bo and Quan Cong; take the forthrightness of Bao Shuya and Bao Zhao as his standard, practice the frugality and loyalty of Yan Ying and Hong Yan, and hold to quiet firmness and unchanging resolve. Even to suffer for the ruler like Jie Zhitui or Ji Xin he would accept; he should also take warning from Han Xin and Ying Bu, who brought disaster through lost loyalty.

Outwardly he does not shirk hardship; inwardly he does not count merit. Credit for success goes to all; for faults he takes blame himself and yields place to others. With sincere reverence and cautious self-restraint, he acts as if the ruler’s majesty were always before him; day and night he is wary, as if a boiling cauldron stood beside him. Bearing heavy responsibility and governing the state entrusted to him, he should take Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou as examples; charged to travel and serve in the four quarters, he should take Duke Shao, Jibo, and men like them as models. In serving the ruler and assisting his predecessor he should exhaust loyalty and never waver.

When striking violent forces he should be as decisive as a hawk seizing a small bird; guarding the frontier he should look up to the achievements of Wei Jiang and Li Mu; governing the people he should aim at the moral teaching of Wen Weng and Shao Xinchen. One whose loyalty reaches the utmost can abandon even his own state—how would he use private cleverness to mislead the ruler? One bound by duty may fear no break in ancestral sacrifice because of it—how would he care about demotion and shame?

Such a person can preserve achievement and honor, bring glory to his clan, and win the people’s praise. On ritual vessels cast by Kunwu, the capable man’s deeds could be inscribed; Gao Yao and Hou Ji were only men—why could ministers today not become like them?

Ge Hong said that when a minister’s achievements are slight yet he receives a generous salary, he ought to feel ashamed; when his performance is undistinguished yet he is granted rank and appointment beyond his deserts, he ought to feel that his name does not match his station. Only by practicing sincerity and trustworthiness and aligning with the upright Way can one win approval from Heaven and from people; only by knowing fear of excess and keeping humility can one ultimately obtain blessing and good fortune. When every move and every gesture follows reason and law, even if praise comes late, one can still keep far from regret and disgrace.

Some ministers, however, harm the ruler’s interests to win favor below, abandon public duty to seek private gain, flatter and agree, and echo the same views again and again. When the ruler errs, they smile and praise him anyway, and repeatedly offer rare curios so as to lead him deeper into fault. With fine words they undermine good governance and with a pleasing manner they court favor; upward they deceive the ruler, downward they block the path by which the worthy may serve. Abroad they befriend outside powers; at home they nurture factions that violate public right. Even if such men have talent enough to hide their errors and eloquence enough to gloss their faults—like Zhao Gao monopolizing power or Dong Zhuo dominating the court—they still cannot in the end escape weapons turned on their persons and the destruction of their whole house.

Yet some foolish, muddled people abandon the upright Way and take the crooked path, turn from what is real and cling to what is false; they see the state overturn and ruined with their own eyes and still do not change their old ways. When calamity strikes, it does not fall from empty sky—it is summoned by what they themselves have done.

Ge Hong said that ministers are like the ruler’s thighs and arms—his very limbs; when the ruler is in hardship, a minister cannot shirk his duty. Therefore the ancients compared the minister to the soil: dig it and springs gush forth; plant it and the hundred grains are harvested. The living rely on it to stand; the dead return to it. A minister whose merit is great does not demand reward; who toils in hardship does not dare to resent it. To understand this is an important method for preserving oneself.

Ge Hong said: When subordinates take on only the duties proper to their posts, affairs are easy to manage; when the span of what they oversee is too wide, matters easily stall and pile up. Without the immense strength of men like Meng Ben and Xia Yu, one cannot lift a load beyond what ordinary people can bear; without talent far above the common run, one likewise cannot take overall charge of business belonging to many different offices.

For this reason Duke Han treated overstepping one’s authority and pushing ahead as culpable offenses, and Ziyuan likewise feared that inadequate ability and failure to measure up to the task would bring disaster upon himself. If someone is outstanding in talent, combines civil and military competence, holds far-sighted counsel at court and can devise long-range plans to overcome the enemy abroad, so that though tasks are many he can finish each in turn and handle two lines of responsibility at once without mishap—and if without him regular order would collapse and no suitable replacement can be found—then letting him hold concurrent posts is acceptable.

If one lacks such capacity, one should weigh one’s own powers and voluntarily decline. When an axle bears too heavy a load, the journey is often delayed. Ordinary people crave honor and glory without thinking of the calamities to come; they end up trapped themselves, and disaster spreads to their lord and kin—is that not lamentable? Everyone knows to refuse a burden like uncut timber that one’s strength cannot manage, yet few are willing to step back from a delegated office they cannot sustain. Alas—how often it is too late! Chen and Li therefore warned people not to force what their abilities cannot carry; Zifang (Zhang Liang) was honored for understanding modest decline and not grasping for too much.

End of Baopuzi (Waipian), fascicle six.

Baopuzi (Waipian), fascicle seven

Lianggui (sound counsel)

Ge Hong said: When birds fly and roost without choosing their trees, they will eventually fall into snares and nets; if people emerge into the world without heeding the right moment, they too cannot escape danger and humiliation. When the time is right, a person rises like Yinglong, the legendary dragon, soaring on multicolored clouds; when the time is unfavorable, they are like a great fish stranded on dry high ground, with nothing to lean on.

Therefore the wise restrain their talents and wait for the proper moment; they withdraw for a time yet still act with purpose. If a mountain is about to collapse, a single fine thread cannot hold it up; when the waters at Dragon Gate surge violently, a few handfuls of mud cannot block them. Once one understands this, one will not rashly take risks in pursuit of gain, nor place one's hopes on mere luck.

Baopuzi writes: When the Duke of Zhou acted as regent, Yi Yin deposed Taijia, Huo Guang removed the King of Changyi, and Sun Lin forced the young emperor to step down, each claimed to be temporarily setting aside the normal way and adopting expedient measures in order to preserve the state. Yet the Duke of Zhou was driven into exile while slander spread far and wide; Yi Yin was eventually put to death, and after his death strange fogs lingered for days; Huo Guang nearly brought disaster on himself, and his clan was soon destroyed; Sun Lin was beheaded before the shadow on the mulberry tree had time to shift. Before people had finished laughing, wailing already followed. If ministers, seeing their ruler in peril, refuse to support him, why appoint assistants at all? Even with seven ministers bold enough to remonstrate straight out, when the state follows a wicked course, rescue is not assured. Men like Wang Mang later exploited these precedents to launch treacherous upheavals, citing past cases on the surface to justify themselves while harboring wolfish intent in their hearts—precisely because Yi Yin and Huo Guang had opened the door to such disorder. Later gentlemen ought to take this as a grave warning.

Matters of deposing and enthroning rulers may look for a moment like compliance with the times, but in root they violate the right way and cannot be sustained. The expedients used in the crisis surrounding the Zhou regency were already condemned—how much less can forcing a ruler off the throne be deemed acceptable? These men all carried their plans through first, then gradually met with calamity.

If someone at the very start of plotting such expedients is betrayed by those greedy for gain, the outcome may be extermination of the whole clan, cut-off sacrifices at the ancestral altar, and another person receiving the enfeoffment in one’s place—examples of this are not few. When wicked, fawning ministers feed a ruler’s arrogance and disorder—such as Gan Xin and Tuo of Jie of Xia, or Chong Hou and Fei Lai of Zhou of Shang, or the faction around King Li of Zhou—they should be replaced and loyal, good men put in their stead; that is not difficult. One should root out evil men at the ruler’s side and banish vicious clans to remote regions.

When holding military power and guarding the frontier, one should act uprightly and observe the law; hold to statutes strictly, keep a correct bearing, make rewards clear and punishments certain, and show no leniency to lawbreakers. Employ the capable and keep close only to the loyal; do not act on one’s own authority—seek approval before acting. When the ruler errs, remonstrate plainly according to reason. Subordinates should be cautious and reverent, never forgetting respect, so that the state remains secure for long and they themselves do not invite disaster. After success, do not cling to power; ask to retire and recommend loyal, able men to succeed you.

After achieving great deeds, one should not claim the credit, but voluntarily request retirement and recommend a loyal and capable person to succeed—would that not show ample composure? Why seize the supreme imperial seal and cord (symbols of sovereign power) and endanger the ruler one serves?

The ruler is like Heaven and like a father. If the ruler can be deposed, then Heaven too could be changed and a father could be replaced. One whose merit fills the world receives no reward; one whose power shakes the throne puts himself in danger. Those who build unmatched achievement by defeating enemies and capturing cities and lands still cannot escape the fate of bows being laid aside once the birds and beasts are hunted out, and hounds being boiled once the rabbits are caught. How much more so for one who deposes his own ruler yet expects the new ruler to cherish him—this is like a son abandoning his birth parents in a valley, finding others to support, then claiming he can be as filial as Boyu or Zeng Shen, on the grounds that his real parents were unworthy of service. Even if he offered the three sacrificial animals morning and evening on a fixed schedule, how could he win human affection and trust?

Huo Guang and his like may have been promoted and richly rewarded at the time only because the new sovereign weighed advantage and honored them—was that truly from the heart? To take back a divorced wife and then speak ill of her former husband, or to buy slaves and revile their old master’s cruelty—even ordinary people would feel this unjust. Why? Because grave harm to one’s own kind naturally unsettles the heart.

Thus Leyang was kept at a distance for his ruthless heart, while Qin Xiba was drawn close for his excessive kindness. If the world truly held that Tang and Wu’s campaigns against their lords were righteous, and that Yi Yin and Huo Guang’s deposition of rulers was wise, it would be encouraging rebellion in one another. Moreover, a deposed ruler is not necessarily guilty: some ministers assist a young sovereign yet wield power arbitrarily and commit deep crimes. Others fear future trouble and remove him while he still holds power, lest present disorder spread, and call this merit in stabilizing the situation and fixing the succession. In truth such calculation serves private interest, not necessarily the state.

Once one who deposes and installs rulers holds excessive power, life and death hang on a single word. The deposed ruler loses the throne, and every later charge is piled on him.

The deposed ruler had already lost the imperial position; the offenses committed by his subjects were invariably laid at his door. Even when people knew this was truly the case, who dared speak of it openly? Without men like the Marquis of Dongmou and the Marquis of Zhuxu to plan the matter, and without historians like Nanshi and Dong Hu to establish his guilt in the record, then who in the present or in later ages could judge the affair? Only those with insight into history can look back and see that the crimes of Jie and Zhou may not have been as grave as legend makes them, and that the achievements of Tang and Wu may not have been as splendid as legend makes them.

Historical works for the most part honor the ruler and belittle the minister, stressing that the ruler is the root and ministers are the branches. The moral logic of the Spring and Autumn Annals holds that the Son of Heaven must not be treated by a subject as an enemy. The classics authored by the sages teach people to serve the ruler with the same attitude as they serve a father, and treat the three great supports of a lifetime—ruler, father, and teacher—as equally deserving of reverence. Yet to allow subjects to depose or install a ruler opens an irregular precedent, lets those below bully those above, and collapses the order between superior and inferior; such a course can hardly serve as a model for posterity.

Ordinary Confucian scholars wallow in filth and are trapped by sophistry; when they discuss Tang and Wu it is as if they were talking about horse liver—something one cannot eat—and those who use this case to criticize them fail to understand expedient adaptation (quanbian). What they value is using expedient means to raise up good without violating right order; they do not mean that so long as the outcome fits reason, one may betray righteousness.

Earlier writers who framed the issue did not refute this view with great principles; instead they left those who held such ideas like one who points a sharp sword blade upward and then climbs a mountain that may crumble at any moment. That is not a way to prolong life and keep clear of danger. Even if for a time one receives lofty appointment and lavish reward, it is no more than a sacrificial ox draped in embroidered finery, a fish in the deep pool greedy for wheat floating on the surface, a thirsty man recklessly drinking wine called “Cloud and Sun,” or a hungry man stuffing himself for the moment on rotten flesh and meat soaked in leaking water.

Yet those who take up the brush and write history all praise this conduct together and treat it as a fine story; they even call unpardonable crimes a grasp of expedient adaptation—something that stirs deep frustration and long sighs. Some warned me that speaking thus would injure the sages and would surely draw ridicule and censure. I replied: After Yao and Shun had been examined and tested within and without, they received the throne in the ancestral temple of Wen Zu. Even if someone wished to slander the sages, he should be punished according to law.

I replied: Shun and Yu each underwent trials and training inside and outside the court before they received the imperial mandate at Wen Zu (Shun’s ancestral temple). Even if someone wished to harm them, how could sages be harmed on that account? In former times Yan Yannian memorialized at court that Huo Guang’s conduct was unprincipled; at the time the court and the realm fell silent, and no one could refute him. All the more so when I am setting a warning for the world without naming and rebuking anyone—why should I worry about ordinary talk?

When Times Are Hard

Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi) said: To exert one’s heart to the full and conceal nothing can be done. Whether what one says is sure to be accepted and one oneself remains safe, however, depends on the turn of fortune. When fortune is unfavorable, treacherous and vicious people, jealous of those they cannot match, will mislead those above, suppress those below, and hate the upright.

Ge Hong said: For a minister to exert his utmost and hold nothing back in offering advice is something that can be done; but to have the ruler surely accept that advice while oneself remains safe and unharmed depends on timing. When the times are unfavorable, wicked and ruthless people envy those stronger than themselves, suppress those above and crush those below, hate the upright, and fear those who handle affairs impartially and expose evil and injustice. Therefore they always seek to remove anyone who surpasses them, so as to escape punishment.

Sagely rulers are not common. Mediocre rulers cannot tell right from wrong; they neither adopt loyal and beneficial counsel nor sometimes even keep the most confidential words secret. Then people like Hong Gong and Shi Xian weave clever words into plausible half-truths and use the name of fairness to pursue private gain. One who offers the art of longevity may instead be sentenced to death; one who proposes plans to stabilize the ruler and secure the realm may soon face execution. Thus the difficulty lies not in speaking up, but in choosing the right moment to speak.

When the worthy admonish a sagely ruler, their words are not necessarily accepted at once. Yi Yin sought audience with King Tang of Shang some seventy times before succeeding. When the wise counsel the foolish, the latter surely will not listen. King Wen of Zhou remonstrated with King Zhou of Shang, yet in the end was not heeded. When advice is disbelieved, that is still bearable; as for Li Si killing Han Fei, Pang Juan having Sun Bin’s kneecaps removed, Grand Secretary Shangguan slandering Qu Yuan, and Yuan Ang bringing disaster upon Chao Cuo—such cases are beyond counting. To serve as a minister is truly hard, and one’s circumstances vary widely.

Some go forward resolutely and never look back, so that their achievements may endure after them; others hide their talents and wait for the right moment, yet never receive it in a lifetime. Ministers of outstanding merit appear only once in many generations, while those who suffer frame-ups pile up in the histories in crowds. Alas, how hard it is to meet the right opportunity!

From this I see that men like Lü Shang (Jiang Taigong) by the Wei River and Fu Yue among the cliffs—even with talent to assist a ruler and wisdom surpassing ordinary people—if they merely hold a fishing rod or carry a rammed-earth tool and end their days among mediocre company, need not ever meet enlightened lords such as King Wen or Emperor Gaozong.

Volume 8 of the Outer Chapters of Baopu Zi concludes here.

Volume 9 of the Outer Chapters of Baopu Zi is titled “On Governance.”

Baopu Zi said: A fine steed or swift courser can gallop across the frontier because Zaofu—a master charioteer—holds the reins. Yu and Ji could govern the hundred officials because they served rulers such as Tang Yao and Yu Shun. Thus the good horse need not strain itself to cover a thousand li in a day; when lord and minister defer to one another with ritual propriety, songs praising great peace rise throughout the realm.

But if a servant were put in charge of Suixiang-class thoroughbreds, or if King Zhou of Shang ruled over the worthy Weizi, Jizi, and Bizi, then when the horse wished to run, it would be checked by a tight bridle and a coerced carriage pole; when the minister wished to remonstrate with full loyalty and devote himself utterly, fortune and disaster would arrive together. In the end, just as a cart overturns on a perilous road, the state too would collapse and could not be revived.

Therefore even a fine horse may be ruined by a clumsy driver, and even a wise and worthy man may be trapped in a dark age. Confucius could not stop the Duke of Lu from sending troops; Yan Ying could not halt the rebellion of Cui Zhu. They had talent in themselves—the problem lay with unworthy rulers.

The ruler is like a vessel, and ministers are like what the vessel holds. When the vessel is too small, it cannot contain its contents. A child abandons a thousand in gold to chase a butterfly; a man of Yue sets aside the eight precious flavors yet finds frogs and field toads delicious—both fail because they do not know how to appreciate what is good and cannot tell what is bad. Even the most precious talent, if not employed, shows no worth; without an enlightened lord to receive them, the worthy cannot escape harm.

In former times Duke Ling of Wei repeatedly doubted when he heard words of sages and worthies; Duke Xiao of Qin fell peacefully asleep while others discoursed loftily on the Way of governing. For such men to achieve an age of great peace and build the achievements of the worthy is like trying to catch a galloping horse while running backward, or like standing in Chu yet heading toward Yan.

The Baopuzi says: The Southern Sea gathers many rivers, and so its depths cannot be fathomed; the Mysterious Garden (Xuanyuan), a legendary immortal mountain, gathers tall trees and rocks, and so it rises into the clouds. A great hall can stand suspended in the air because many beams support it together; wheels are curved and shafts are straight—each has its use, and neither can be omitted.

Therefore, when the Eight Worthies (Yuankai) of Shun’s court are employed as assistants, teaching can spread widely; when there is talent enough to repel the enemy at the frontier, those who chase power by wicked means will hold themselves in check. Shun and Yu held the realm but did not treat it as private property; Duke Ling of Wei, though proud and indulgent, did not fall into crisis for that reason.

When the strength of the many combines, even the heaviest load can be lifted; when the wisdom of the many is brought forth, every affair of government can be well ordered. So when hands are sufficient, even if someone dies, the work will not fail for that reason; when talent is abundant, even if disorder appears, the state will not perish.

Yet swords and halberds are not suited to sewing and mending; awls and gimlets cannot be used to chop and cut; cattle and horses cannot bark to guard the gate; chickens and dogs cannot be harnessed to draw chariots. Put each person’s strengths to use and nothing will be delayed; avoid their weaknesses and no talent in the world need lie idle.

Thus ends Volume Ten of the Outer Chapters of the Baopuzi.

Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, Volume Eleven

Honoring Worthies (Guixian — respecting talented people)

Ge Hong said: Abandoning light boats and attempting to cross boundless waters makes it difficult to guarantee reaching the other shore; without capable assistants, yet hoping for peace throughout the realm—never has anyone heard of achieving success this way. Wild geese and fabulous birds can soar high because of their powerful wings; the horned dragons of deep abysses can rise through the sky, likewise relying on the aid of clouds and mist. Therefore, recruiting the talented and employing the capable is the monarch's most important duty; establishing achievements and meritorious service is what outstanding talents pursue. If one only loves stability throughout the realm yet ignores people of wisdom and strategy, it is like wanting to travel far yet leaving behind good horses.

Recommending those who live in seclusion in the countryside yet possess unused talent, promoting overlooked recluses, allowing them to fulfill their abilities, and rewarding them with salaries according to merit—this is the proper way a monarch should treat the talented. Ministers should work diligently day and night on official affairs, exerting themselves fully in the affairs of all officials, recommending the good and dismissing the evil, doing everything they know should be done with full effort, thereby repaying those who understand and trust them.

The world may have common people who live in reclusion without care, but it cannot be without a sovereign who can independently take responsibility. Scholars may willingly withdraw without worry, but a monarch cannot lack ministers yet still expect to govern the country well. Therefore, Fu Yue and Lü Shang did not rush to seek fame and advancement; their virtue and talent were complete, and they did not place the status of kings and nobles in their hearts. Emperor Gao of Yin and King Wen of Zhou, however, day and night hoped to obtain the talented, because establishing great achievements requires excellent assistants.

Some monarchs grew up in deep palaces from childhood, raised by women when grown, not understanding the hardships of farming and labor, nor comprehending why one should be vigilant about troubles and worries. They inherit family estates and succeed to the throne, yet are blinded in their minds by the rise and fall, success and failure of states. Their thoughts are fixed only on luxurious enjoyment, most passionate about travel, feasting, hunting, and wine and music; hearing licentious music they listen with full attention, seeing beautiful women they cannot shift their eyes. They use their ears, eyes, and intelligence only on these matters, never seriously examining people or focusing their minds on government affairs; knowing only that precious playthings please the heart, yet not knowing that outstanding talent can stabilize the country.

Rhinoceros horns, ivory, and pearls and jade can be transported from ten thousand li away without needing legs; yet talented people who can stabilize danger and support the tipping may not be found even after traveling throughout the entire state territory. Only when seriously ill does one seek good doctors; only when the pillars are rotten and danger has already arrived does one think of strategists. This is like digging a well after a fire has broken out, or occupying land to plant fields only when hungry. Even with ordinary servants, one must usually comfort and treat them well to make them work hard; how can one usually make no preparations, yet when urgently needed expect to immediately obtain their effectiveness?

Some say: “If the tail is bigger than the body, it cannot wag; if a subject is more capable than the ruler, he should not be employed. Therefore, if what the mouth cannot hold is forced down, one will choke; if a heavy responsibility is given to someone whose ability does not match it, he will be looked down upon.”

Baopuzi said: “That remark is very odd. In the past, when Jingzi was still young and served as acting chief minister, he in fact relied on twenty-five worthy men to assist him, and only then did the state reach stability and peace. Zijian came from humble origins yet governed a great state; Jian You (Zijian’s aide) had many people around him whose talent surpassed his own, and so he gained their broad support and benefited greatly from it. Duke Huan of Qi killed his brother to take the throne, behaved almost like a beast—disheveled hair, heavy drinking, three hundred women in the inner quarters—yet he entrusted affairs of state to his “second father,” Guan Zhong. Thereupon he became hegemon among the feudal lords. After Guan Zhong died, turmoil quickly arose. Lu employed Jizi for more than twenty years: at home there were no corrupt policies, abroad there was no invasion or plunder. After Jizi died, the state’s decline appeared one after another. Was this not because Duke Huan’s ability fell far short of Guan Zhong’s, yet he achieved such achievements; whereas the ruler of Lu personally took charge of government and instead brought about such disasters?

Emperor Gaozu of Han, planning in the tent and deciding victory or defeat a thousand li away, was not the equal of Zhang Liang and Chen Ping; leading armies and becoming stronger the more troops he had, conquering wherever he went, he was also not the equal of Han Xin and Ying Bu. Gaozu employed these men together and only then accomplished the imperial enterprise. Therefore, running fast oneself cannot compare with riding a fine horse; chasing birds and beasts oneself cannot compare with relying on hawk and hound. A powerful crossbow is not easy to handle, yet it can shatter hard targets and shoot far; a large ship is not easy to steer, yet it can carry heavy loads and cross water over long distances.”