《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 2

Some people can be entrusted with weighty responsibilities and arduous affairs; some are fierce in battle and hard to subdue, yet can be used to repel strong enemies and expand territory; some excel in virtue and talent and are difficult to command, yet can be used to put human relations and moral order in good shape.

In the past, Duke Ai of Lu was a mediocre ruler, while Confucius was a sage—yet Confucius still served him with full loyalty and devotion. Duke Jing of Qi was ordinary in ability, while Yan Ying was a man of talent—yet he still gave him his utmost loyalty and effort. As ministers, how could they always measure their intelligence and capacity against their lord’s, and refuse office unless they met a ruler like Yao or Shun? Whoever one serves, one serves one’s lord; whoever one obeys, one works for the people. To assist the lord with all one’s strength so that he falls short neither of Tang Yao nor Yu Shun—that too is the concern of a person who understands the larger way.

End of Baopuzi (Outer Chapters), fascicle twelve.

Baopuzi (Outer Chapters), fascicle thirteen: Respecting Scholars.

Baopuzi says: When You Yu was in the state of Rong, Duke Mu of Qin remained deeply anxious; when Chu executed De Chen, Duke Wen of Jin was greatly pleased. After Yue Yi left Yan, Yan went into decline; when Wen Zhong and Fan Li served Yue, Yue rose to hegemony. States fell and families were ruined—all because they lost worthy talent. Clearly, talent matters not only when you gain it but also when you lose it.

Even Liuxia Hui’s tomb could blunt an enemy’s fighting spirit—how much more if he held office at court? Duan Gan Mu lived in seclusion yet could still halt an invading army—how much more if he were placed in a high post? A portrait of Zhi Du could make the fierce Xiongnu afraid; after Zhuge Liang died, the great powers still sheathed their swords. With such people to repel foes, the realm would not be violated; with them commanding armies, the ruler would not suffer disgrace.

Therefore wise rulers bring gifts to humble lanes to seek the worthy, search ruined groves for buried talent, send carriages to river bridges to welcome them, and open every door to recruit without slackening. They do not stint gold and jade, do not turn back because the road is long, do not fear lowering themselves, and do not treat humble words as shame—they make attracting talent their first task and gaining people their treasure. Those who recommend the worthy are richly rewarded; those who bury talent are treated as usurping their posts.

The Duke of Zhou personally visited humble dwellings to call on the worthy; King Zhao of Qin bowed to Fan Ju and honored him as a chief guest. When Zou Yan came to Yan, King Zhao of Yan took a broom and welcomed him in person; before Zhuang Zhou had eaten, King Huiwen of Zhao had already risen respectfully. When Duke Wen of Jin received the worthy Haitang, though his legs were weak he sat upright and dared not sit askew. A Qi minister visited the sage at Jiqu many times without tiring of the trips. King Chu of Chu was willing to accept blows from Baoshen; someone once doffed armor and received a guest respectfully at Gonglu. Those rulers lowered themselves and checked their pride, treating the lowly with their high rank—and in the end they could see farther and hear more through such talent. Worthy people are like dragons coiled and tigers crouched; for a ruler to treat them so is only right.

Everyone praises benevolence and virtue, yet no one can govern the world by benevolence and virtue alone; everyone deplores punishment and penal law, yet no one can fully abolish punishment and still put the people in order. Some say: “When a sage ruler governs the world, his teaching sinks into people’s hearts like wind bending the grass; moral instruction is broad and pure—why would punishment still be needed?” I hold that moral instruction is like the splendid robes worn at sacrifice, while punishment is like armor that wards off blades. To use moral instruction alone to govern the cunning and violent is like going to meet sharp swords dressed only in ceremonial robes; to apply punishment in an age of peace and goodwill is like wearing armor into the grand hall of the ancestral temple.

Thus benevolence and virtue are the means to nurture all things, and punishment is the means to chastise wrongdoing. I wish to help someone, yet he wishes to harm me; if benevolence still cannot make him repent, punishment alone can stop him. From this it is clear that punishment assists humane governance.

This is like methods of cultivation—visualizing the mysterious embryo, regulating breath through exhalation and inhalation, holding the inner light and looking inward, imitating the bear climbing a tree and the bird stretching its wings—all arts of long life. Yet they are arduous, slow to show results, and few who practice them succeed; among ten thousand people perhaps not one truly achieves them. When illness is severe and pain extreme, when the body is weak and life hangs in the balance, one has no choice but to use needle and stone acupuncture, or drugs of strong medicinal property. If one abandons the prescriptions of Bian Que and Yi He, ancient master physicians, and pursues only the path of long life taught by Chisongzi and Wangziqiao, legendary immortals, the dead will be many.

Governing the world with benevolence and virtue is not a bad thing; but when the people are crafty and hypocritical, chase profit and forget righteousness, if one does not restrain them with authority and correct them with punishment, the simple customs of remote antiquity in the age of Fuxi and Shennong cannot be restored, social disorder cannot be pacified, and deep calamities will follow. Using killing to stop killing—is that done from delight?

The eight trigrams of the Book of Changes are used to probe the principles of things and exhaust human nature. The hexagram Shike (Biting Through) clarifies punishment and the trial of cases; the hexagram Xikan (Repeated Danger) speaks of binding the guilty with cords. From this it is evident that the tradition of imposing punishment is very old.

By the time of Xuanyuan (the Yellow Emperor), his sagely virtue was already very high, yet he still personally went to war, fought hundreds of battles, and at Zhuolu and Banquan killed many—the ground ran with blood. Even so, he could not ensure that there would never again be rebellion or that weapons would be put away for good. How much less could he make every common person good and every person free of crime? There has never been a case where the realm was well governed by teaching and transformation alone, without applying punishments.

In the flourishing age of Tang Yao and Yu Shun, punishments were carried out in accord with the Way of Heaven—exile, execution, and relocation of criminals—before the realm submitted in peace. Emperor Wen of Han honored quietude and non-action (wuwei); his achievements could compare with Kings Cheng and Kang, yet he still sentenced four hundred people to death, and many died under the lash as well.

The ancient master craftsman Shi never discarded his ink line and square—only then could timber be worked straight. An enlightened ruler does not abolish execution and punishment; only then does governance not gradually decay. The movement of Heaven and Earth cannot consist of benevolence alone: the green yang of spring brings the harmonious qi that nourishes the myriad things, while the killing qi of autumn makes irregular branches wither and fall. Warm winds blow and withered plants stretch out again; white dew congeals and flourishing blossoms drop away. Precisely because there is both growth and killing, the myriad things can flourish and the work of the seasons can be completed.

If there were only warmth and no cold, insects would not hibernate and plants might even grow in winter; if there were only leniency and no severity, wicked and rebellious acts would rise together and sharp weapons would have to be kept ready for long periods. Therefore clear rewards are for upholding the right Way, and resolute punishments are for warding off evil. Reward and punishment are the chief means of encouraging good and punishing wrong. In governing the people and carrying out teaching, lenience and severity must be combined: so that the weak dare not treat the law lightly, and the strong are not stripped of benevolence by punishment.

In antiquity the five punishments entailed as many as three thousand named offenses—showing that the plumb line of law must not be bent. When the Minister of Justice (Sikou) carried out punishments, the ruler should oversee in person and not let the law exist in name only. When the plumb line is bent, wickedness sprouts; when law is lax, calamity grows. States have not perished for lack of statutes, but because statutes multiplied yet were not enforced; armies have not lost battles for lack of prohibitions, but because prohibitions were set yet could not stop violations. Then every kind of evil spreads, and subordinates grow disrespectful toward superiors.

Rewards should match merit in weight, not necessarily in lavishness; punishments should match the offense in degree, not necessarily in cruelty. If whipping and correction are dropped in the household, servants grow slack; if the state ceases campaigning, ministers grow disrespectful. Care must take reverence as its root if it is to last without decline—hence ritual (li) is established to deepen respect. Virtuous government also needs awe-inspiring authority to stand firm for long—hence punishments are established to put order in place.

If a household abolishes whipping and punishment, servants will grow slack; if a state ceases military campaigns, subjects will lose respect. Affection must be sustained by awe if it is to last without decline—hence ritual is established to honor it; virtue must be supported by authority if it is to endure—hence penal law is instituted to maintain order.

When a carpenter uses the compass and square, he does not casually set them aside; thus what he makes is neither round nor square by mistake. When a wise ruler does not abandon the law, the cunning cannot freely deploy their schemes. Tang Yao and Yu Shun had benevolence like heaven, yet still punished the four criminals; the Duke of Zhou cherished his brothers yet did not pardon Guan Shu and Cai Shu. Confucius executed Shaozheng Mao; Emperor Wu killed his own sister’s son. Though they wept and lamented the harshness of the law, in the end they had no choice.

Therefore, punishing one person to warn the many, sacrificing the few to preserve the many, is like combing the hair—the benefit goes to the majority; like cutting out a poisoned sore—the whole body is saved. Thus acupuncture and lancing, though painful, cannot be stopped because they cure illness; penal law, though harsh and ugly, cannot be abolished because it remedies failings.

An army may stand in formation like a forest, yet not every soldier is brave. Facing blades and rushing into fire are things people instinctively fear. If one relies only on kind words to encourage them, few will give their lives in battle; if one uses execution as a deterrent, soldiers will all fight with full force. Therefore, driving people with smiles and pleasant speech works less quickly than shouting; coaxing and pleasing them is less effective than aligning them through punishment.

Thus Lord Anling valued moving hearts yet still enforced the law clearly; Zichan of Wei increased penalties for dumping ashes in the street. Using punishments that people fear to stop behavior they treat lightly—strict laws that no one breaks—this is the way to protect the people. One who knows how to treat illness prevents disease before it arises; one who grasps the keys to order and chaos stops calamity before it appears.

If light penalties are used to forbid serious crimes, and lenient statutes to guard great interests, the more clauses are written, the more offenders there will be. This is like digging pits on the road—it cannot be called the concern of a humane person. One who governs well must first straighten himself, then use that to guide others; first set right those close at hand, then discipline those far away.

Those who govern a state well always begin by setting their own conduct straight, so as to lead others; they put those nearest them in order first, then extend discipline to those more distant. They do not bend the law to serve private ends, and when someone is guilty, they punish according to law and grant no pardon. It was like Shi Que, a minister of Wei in the Spring and Autumn period, who had his own son executed to establish the authority of the law; or Duke Wen of Jin, who set aside personal feeling and put to death his follower Hu Tu.

Benevolence and compassion are like the rouge used in the business of government; punishments are like the reins and whip with which one steers the world. Rouge is not what the body needs most, yet reins and whip cannot be absent for an instant. When reverence and seriousness slacken even slightly, laxity and disrespect appear; when authority relaxes a little, all kinds of evil intent spring up. If one ought to be angry and is not, treacherous ministers will rampage like tigers; if one ought to execute and does not, great robbers will arise.

A watercourse left untended for long will gradually break down; a mountain may begin to collapse from a hairline crack. A towering tree was once no more than a tiny shoot. When fire is drilled from wood, a single spoonful of water can put out the first spark. Before a swan’s egg has hatched, anyone can crush it in the hand; but once it rides the great wind, sets the plain ablaze, and wings its way up among the rosy clouds, even the wise and the brave can hardly bring it under control. Therefore the enlightened ruler deals with disaster while it is still easy to handle, and cuts off wrongdoing while it is still slight; he does not, by indulgence that blurs good and evil, feed disorder, nor does he hesitate when the time to act has come.

Punishment bears on the safety of the state; it is a weighty power of the realm and must be held by the ruler in person, not handed to others. As one must not grasp a long sword by the blade, so one must not let a huge fish slip from the deep abyss. Whether punitive authority is truly in the ruler’s hands is the root of a state’s rise or fall and the basis of its security or peril. Tian Chang’s seizure of Qi, the partition of Jin by the six ministerial houses, Zhao Gao’s murder of the Second Emperor of Qin, and Wang Mang’s usurpation of the Han—all began from small omens and grew step by step. Some lamented by the seashore; some beat their breasts at Wangyi Palace, where the Second Emperor was killed; the disaster reached their clans and descendants and stands as a warning to later ages. Such catastrophes occurred because people admired the empty fame of antiquity while forgetting the real calamities before their eyes.

Someone said: “The rise of penal institutions was probably a feature only of declining ages. The root of governing the people lies solely in benevolence and righteousness. When the ruler practices Wuwei (non-action) in quietude, the people naturally become upright; when the ruler is without greedy desire, the people naturally become simple and honest. The saying that ‘small fish should not be turned over too often in the pot’ warns that governance should not be meddlesome. Treat people with generous kindness, and you will win the people’s support; let them serve with willing hearts, and subordinates will attach themselves to you. Thus Mencius held that cultivating oneself with humaneness could settle all under Heaven; Yang Xiong, for his part, compared the Legalist arts of Shen Buhai and Han Fei to the craft of the butcher. To whip constantly and jerk the reins while driving is not Zaofu’s way of handling the team; harsh penalties and heavy punishments likewise do not accord with the governing ways of the Three Dynasties and the Five Emperors.

“When Yu Shun ruled all under Heaven, he need neither point with his hand to give orders nor repeat admonitions from his mouth; he had only to sit in respectful stillness facing south, and the realm was harmonious and at peace. When the ruler guides custom through policy and teaching, playing the zither and reciting poetry, he need not step down from the hall, yet the fishermen become deferential and solemn. If one can lavish kindness and lighten taxes, relieve the distressed and raise up the oppressed, recommend the worthy and employ the capable, encourage farming and cut expenses, receive those who submit with ritual, and reassure the distant with virtue; then educate them through the Chengjun (royal academy) and govern and instruct them through the Xiang and Xu (local schools)—then superiors act and inferiors follow, good customs rise as swiftly as tender grass bending in a sharp wind, and people renew their hearts as if clear water washed away light dust. In court, feudal lords would defer to one another in virtue; in the countryside, nothing would breach ritual propriety. With fields perhaps lying fallow and the punitive gear of Chu forever unused, why would one need rewards and punishments to govern the state?”

Baopuzi replied: “The Yijing clarifies the fixing of penalties and the ordering of statutes; the Shangshu speaks of pity and caution in judging cases and of weighing decisions carefully. Conferring ranks at court and executing criminals in the marketplace—such practices have existed from antiquity; how could they have appeared only in a declining age? When humaneness is excessive, statutes cannot be established; when authority is insufficient, subordinates encroach upon their superiors. If statutes are not established, affairs fall into disorder; if subordinates encroach upon superiors, rebellious conduct arises. The purest ancient customs had already thinned by the Three Dynasties; the simple Great Dao had further scattered by the Qin and Han. Moral decline has lasted long, and popular habits today are thinner still.”

If one tries to curb fraud by tying knots for record-keeping, or to reform the cunning by remaining silent; if one drives a galloping horse on a perilous road yet drops the reins and whip, or crosses stormy waters while abandoning rudder and oars; if one chases thieves in circles yet tries to extinguish fire with bows and courtesies; if one kills Chao Cuo to quell the Rebellion of the Seven States, or brandishes weapons to suppress the Red Eyebrows—these approaches will not work.

In the age of the Three Sovereigns, rulers governed the realm on foot; in the age of the Five Emperors, they quickened their pace. From the era of hegemony and kingship onward, governance grew ever more urgent. When abuses arose, officials oppressed the people, the people grew crafty, and bandits ran rampant. Punishments such as shaving the head and wearing shackles could not restrain the shameless; the extreme penalty of exterminating whole clans could not deter those who coveted power. The government added spies to widen its view, set up more ears to hear from afar, lit lamps to clear backlogged business, and exhausted its strength to cut off the sources of evil—yet cries of injustice still sounded in markets and courts, and grievances in remote regions went unheard. Those who monopolized authority sometimes made trouble right before the officials’ eyes; those who harmed the state sometimes plotted within the palace walls.

To use the way of Taihao to govern an age of moral decline, or to use the “Song of Day One” to calm a seething chaos, is to fail to see that the way of governance must change with the times, and to miss the principle of increase, decrease, and adaptation. It is like carving a mark on the boat to recover a sword already fallen into the water; like facing the high sky yet shooting an arrow five paces away; like wearing rhinoceros hide to wade into fathomless depths, or donning fur to ward off scorching heat; like untying a knot with one’s heel, or scratching one’s back by tilting the head—there is no greater folly.

First issue the laws, then punish according to them; after ascertaining the facts, do not congratulate yourself. Then Bo will not resent the loss of his fief, and the states of Yu and Rui will feel shame and cease their dispute. As for the violent who hide their tracks and fear no rope, or who yield when tempted and let bad habits spread unchecked—if one still prides oneself on the great principle of tolerance and forbearance, then even after the facts are clear, one must not congratulate oneself.

If one indulges and tolerates violent offenders, letting them violate the law without fear, and because of excessive leniency allows wicked conduct to spread like weeds without uprooting it—while using phrases such as “the great Dao should embrace all things” to cover up the harm, forgetting that disaster is already at hand—this is like having a parched throat and imminent peril yet looking far away to the distant sea for relief; or like waiting until a flood has surged to one’s feet before going to the woods of Changzhou to build a boat. How could one thus escape the fate of Kuafu chasing the sun until he died of thirst, or avoid drowning in the flood?

People of the world belittle the practical methods of governing a state taught by Shen Buhai and Han Fei, yet praise the empty talk of Laozi and Zhuangzi. Yet when governing a state one cannot abolish punishment: those who kill are not sentenced to death, and those who injure others are also pardoned. This is like serving meat in an earthen dish or clay bowl—it cannot relieve morning hunger. The discourse of the Daoist school is indeed lofty in spirit, but if one tries to put it into practice, it produces harm instead. It is vague and remote, like using the sword Ganjiang to sew clothes, like using a giant elephant to catch mice, like a golden boat that cannot withstand the waves raised by Yang Hou, or a jade horse that cannot bear the task of galloping a thousand li.

If one truly wished to carry out these doctrines, one would have to burn the instruments of punishment, tear down prisons, remove officials, destroy legal documents, melt down weapons, level city walls, scatter the wealth of treasuries, destroy tally tokens, dismantle passes and bridges, and smash weights and measures; one would also have to blind the eyes of Lizhu (legendary for keen sight) and stop up the ears of Ziye (legendary for keen hearing). Let everything follow its natural course without constraint, returning to a primal state; give no instruction and undertake no governance or management, so that people would be like fish in rivers and lakes, each forgetting the other. Then the court would stand empty as if no one were there, and the people might even live out their lives without dealings with one another. These ideas are easy to speak of but hard to put into practice.

Ordinary Confucian scholars have only heard that the Zhou rose through benevolent virtue and that Qin perished because of harsh laws and punishments, yet they have not seen clearly: the Zhou did not flourish solely through benevolence, nor did Qin fall only because of severity. In the past the Zhou used corporal punishment, cutting off feet and slicing off noses; the orders issued at Mengjin stipulated that those who arrived late would be put to death. The Zhou exerted themselves to enforce rewards and punishments and even swore oaths to punish the wives and children of offenders. Examining these practices, the Zhou were far from wholly humane and mild.

By the last age of Zhou, the legal net was in disorder, those who applied the law played with its provisions, rulers were harsh and tyrannical, and orders could not be carried out in all directions; ritual, music, and military campaigns were no longer controlled by the sovereign. Ministers fought for power and profit and turned into serpents that devoured everything; they cut the root and blocked the source and ruined the rites. Some were drowned in the Han River, some were exiled to the place of Zhi. The Zhou had already reached this pass—how could they be called purely benevolent?

A regime loses control and meets ruin because its laws and discipline are not strictly enforced. When Qin first rose, in appointing officials it was able to select men of talent: people like Wei Yang and You Yu carried out statutes and institutions at home, while people like Bai Qi and Wang Jian won victories abroad in war. Qin annexed the weak and attacked disordered states, thereby establishing prestige and achieving hegemony, swallowing neighboring lands and overpowering rival powers, expanding territory and driving out the Rong—its momentum like dragons leaping and tigers springing—truly relying on clear rewards and punishments to lay the foundation of imperial rule.

By the end of the Qin dynasty, the rulers, emboldened by success, grew arrogant; they indulged in luxury and pleasure to the extreme and imposed cruel, tyrannical rule. They built the Great Wall and constructed more than a thousand detached palaces; bells, drums, song and dance, beautiful women and musicians—they enjoyed all this without leaving their gates. Building the Lishan tomb consumed more than half the tax burden; they conscripted commoners from the left register for frontier garrison duty and pitilessly buried scholars alive. The Qin army struck the Xianyun in the north and campaigned against the Baiyue in the south, deploying armies of a million men in wars that lasted decades. Families were torn apart; every household seethed with resentment; white bones piled like hills, and the wilds were full of graves no one tended. Xu Fu went to sea and never returned, deepening the people’s grief; when Zhao Gao entered court, he gathered a pack of vicious men. All under heaven wished to rebel; nine out of ten households were already ruined. The fall of Qin—was it because punishments were harsh? Qin rose by using severe punishments to establish authority; it did not fall merely because punishments were severe.

Punishment is like a blade: a skilled hand can use it to accomplish things; a clumsy one may cut himself. When governing a state there is a proper Way, and if punishments are added in support, wicked and deceitful acts will not arise, and fierce and perverse people will reform. If laws are lax, the bonds of order are in chaos, heaven’s principle is violated, and punishments are applied wrongly, the state will surely soon be in peril. This is like water and fire: both can save life and both can destroy it—the key is whether one knows how to use them. If accumulated illness is not cleared away and one does not know to apply the methods of the Yue physician (the ancient master Bian Que), one can hardly hope for longevity like that of Peng Zu.

Those who form factions through treachery and wickedness are indeed numerous. Unless a strict system for impeaching lawbreakers is established, it will be hard to see lasting peace and well-being. Officials of the caliber of Yu and Zhang should be chosen and entrusted with governing the world according to law; people like Zhao and Chen should be selected to review cases and impeach wrongdoers. When a wise ruler above devotes himself to governance and loyal, upright men below give their full effort, wrongdoing is struck down as swiftly as a hawk or eagle seizes a bird, and trouble is cut off at the first sign, as weeds are cleared from a field with a sickle. If rewards are not given arbitrarily and punishments do not fall on the innocent, the standards of orderly rule can be put into practice. When people obey orders and do not break the law, punishments might gradually be reduced or abolished; but to claim that great order can be achieved without punishments at all is something one still cannot assert with confidence.

Someone asked: “Then are punishments truly meant to support moral instruction, encourage people toward goodness, restrain evil, and establish the authority of law?”

Someone asked: “Since punishments are indeed meant to assist moral instruction, encourage good conduct, and restrain deviation and wrongdoing, could the ancient corporal punishments that mutilated the body also be restored?”

Baopuzi replied: “Why not? In antiquity the Zhou used corporal punishments, and the dynasty endured for seven hundred years; when the Han abolished corporal punishments, its span fell short of the Zhou’s. Later they switched to flogging and beating with the stick, and many died under those penalties. In name the punishment was lighter; in fact it was killing people.

When offenders’ crimes did not warrant death, they received only penal servitude, exile, flogging, or beating. If an amnesty happened along, their bodies might suffer not a hair’s harm. Even shaving the head meant only cutting hair that would grow again; even wounds from beating would eventually heal. Such penalties were truly insufficient to awe those whose crimes fell one step short of capital offense. After corporal punishments were abolished, there was no fitting intermediate penalty below death; for crimes just below capital, one could only impose servitude, exile, flogging, or beating—so severity and leniency were hard to match.

Such offenses do not occur constantly, yet they appear from time to time. To execute the criminal seems too heavy; to flog them seems too light—and there are not a few who commit this kind of crime. Today, without corporal punishments, these crimes just below capital often go without suitable punishment. If, for those who are not guilty of rebellion, great treason, grave insult to ruler or parents, violation of military law on the battlefield, or personally killing someone, corporal punishment were substituted for death, that would suffice to chastise the vicious and show the multitude. The punished could still serve and work; they would not be cut off from living or continuing their line—but they would be maimed for life, and when the people saw them, none would fail to feel dread. Such a penalty could make those who had not yet offended take warning and admonish later ages; its effect would even exceed putting criminals to death.

Putting criminals to death is certainly not lacking in severity, but once the corpse is disposed of, within three days it is buried or cast aside; many do not know of the matter, and few see it with their own eyes. Corporal punishment, by contrast, becomes a warning visible to all; its admonitory reach is broader.

In Wei there were repeated discussions of restoring corporal punishments. At that time most of the broadly learned, penetrating, and clear-minded Confucians held that it should be restored, though some opposed—opinions were divided. Emperor Wu of Wei also favored restoration, but the frontiers were not yet settled and people in distant regions could not yet fully grasp how the central realm was governed; if they suddenly heard that the central lands cut off people’s limbs and sliced off ears and noses, they might take the central realm for a cruel and tyrannical place. Therefore the matter was set aside for the time being, to be taken up again once the four quarters were unified and at peace. The penetrating Yang Ziyun also held that corporal punishments should be restored—it is only that abolition had lasted so long that those who joined in deliberating on public affairs had not yet treated it as urgent business.”

This concludes the fourteenth fascicle of the Outer Chapters of the Baopuzi.

Textual notes: In the first place, the manuscript originally read xian (“all” or “every”); following the collated edition, it was emended to huo (“perhaps” or “sometimes”). In the second place, the original reading tong (“pain”) was changed to bing (“illness” or “affliction”). In the third place, qing (“feeling” or “circumstance”) was changed to duo (“sloth” or “laziness”). In the fourth place, huo was changed to jie (“to warn” or “to admonish”). In the fifth place, xing (“nature” or “character”) was changed to wang (“to go toward” or “to tend toward”). In the sixth place, zhi (the particle “it” or “of”) was changed to fa (“lack” or “deficiency”). In the seventh place, geng (“to change” or “to renew”) was changed to li (“official” or “clerk”). In the eighth place, the reduplicated fenfen (“indignant” or “resentful”) was changed to kuikui (“muddled,” “confused,” or “vexed in mind”).

The fifteenth fascicle of the Outer Chapters of the Baopuzi bears the title “Shen Ju” (Examining and Promoting Selection). It treats how to inspect and choose officials for office. Ge Hong writes: “Mount Hua and Mount Huo are able to tower into the clouds …”

Baopuzi says: Mount Hua and Mount Huo can tower into the clouds because their foundations run deep. Tang Yao and Yu Shun could establish lofty achievements because they truly relied on worthy assistants. Even someone with Sun Yang’s gift for judging horses cannot cover a thousand li in a day without a swift steed’s legs; even someone with talent spanning past and present cannot accomplish great undertakings without helpers who give their full effort.

However intelligent a ruler may be—bright as the sun and moon, able to discern what has not yet come to light—the business of state is vast and cannot be handled alone; fine details cannot all be personally overseen. One must therefore see farther through others’ eyes and hear more widely through others’ ears; every task needs someone in charge to assist in governing the realm. Enlightened rulers invariably seek the worthy from within and treat selecting talent as their foremost duty: they send jade and silk to courteously invite recluses in mountains and forests, and dispatch carriages to summon sages in caves and wilds. The mind wearies in the search for talent, but once the capable are employed, the ruler may rest at ease. From the Three Ducal Ministers and Nine Ministers down to runners and attendants, each should fill his post and join in planning how to govern. When the ruler keeps his place with humility and does not act rashly, the state is secure, punishments may lie unused, teaching reaches the four quarters, and the myriad regions are at peace.

Setting offices and dividing responsibilities is like building a house: if any part of the structure is unsound, it may become the reason the house collapses. Yet before scholars are recommended and appointed, they should be tested by the four categories of evaluation; the Three Ducal Ministers, Nine Ministers, and other high posts should likewise be chosen from among them—only those whose talent is outstanding and rises above the common run should be picked.

By the late Han, under Emperors Huan and Ling, power slipped from the imperial house and government fell to treacherous ministers. Discipline slackened and moral transformation decayed; the upright and virtuous were pushed down while skilled flatterers were raised up; those who held to the Way were shut out while the rich and powerful advanced. Struggle for power and profit became the custom; people sought only gain and knew no shame. Some offered bribes of precious goods to win a patron’s recommendation; some, through their fathers’ and brothers’ rank, gained summons the moment they crossed a threshold; others won favor by long bowing and servile compliance.

Once the standard for choosing talent is unjust, judgment loses its measure; when the dou and hu (measures for grain) are wrong, large and small are confused; without a plumb line, straight and crooked cannot be told apart; when selection is skewed, the unfit pour in in great numbers.

If such people are put in charge of the common people, they will be brutal and greedy, plundering like wolves to recoup what they spent buying their offices. If they are allowed to run the government, the political scene will be more tangled than a knotted skein of silk. They gather mediocre incompetents as their faction, yet expect that when an order is issued everyone will obey like grass bending in the wind. How can affairs be kept in order this way? It is like hanging up rubble and demanding that it shine like a night pearl, or leaving the strings untuned and expecting clear, ringing music.

How can we fail to clarify what is muddy, distinguish high from low, weed out those who cannot tell good from bad, strictly test people’s ability to handle public business, and tightly guard against the greedy? The root of national decline lies here—how can one not be alarmed?

In antiquity, when feudal lords recommended men to the court: if the recommendation was apt, it counted as merit and could lead to promotion and ennoblement; if it was wrong, it counted as fault and brought demotion and reduction of fief. Even so, one still could not avoid the sort of verse in the Book of Odes that satirizes those who hold salary without doing their job, and there were still worthies like those celebrated in “Felling Sandalwood” and “The Snare for Hares,” who hid in the hills and refused to serve. How much more so today, when those who recommend often bear no responsibility for knowing men, and those appointed feel no anxiety about failing their posts. Once the measure for choosing talent is wrong, how can one expect any restraint in how many are put in office?

Those who stand out yet have no backing often hide their ability and wait for the right moment; petty, shallow people rely on currying favor and rush to grab position. Because the worthy wait for the right time, they end up poor and blocked; because petty men rush to scheme, they lightly steal office and rise fast.

When birds of prey flock together, the phoenix and the luan withdraw; when wolves block the road, the qilin keeps far away. Promote the good and use them to teach the multitude, and the unkind will naturally stay away. When the deceitful and false gain rank and power, heroes retreat. People of high principle are ashamed to keep company with the base; the honest and upright are ashamed to stand among the greedy. When selection and appointment both go wrong, the talented fall silent and hold themselves apart; when talent is silent and withdraws, the vicious recommend one another. The vicious band together, petty power expands, and when petty men prevail, the cruel and wicked appear one after another. Then voices praising great peace are heard no more, and sighs of resentment rise on every side.

Talented people of upright character, relying on their own abilities, refuse to submit to others; in advancing or withdrawing they remain silent and leave matters to fate, entrusting poverty or prosperity, gain or loss, success or failure to nature. How could such people fail to fall behind those who form factions for private gain and rank below those who hold power and influence?

Outstanding scholars who stand apart from the crowd strictly observe ritual propriety; their bearing is calm and steady, upright as a mountain and settled as a deep pool—yet few understand them. Those who chase fame and profit are blinded and instead slander them. Thus rulers who wish to find worthy talent never learn where exceptional people are; those who cherish the Way and wish to serve find no one to accept them. Even if they possessed the ability of an Yi Yin or a Qi and a spirit surpassing their age, they would still sink into hardship and die without ever being recommended or employed.

Meanwhile those in factions and those with power gather in crowds, packed together like shoals of fish. When offices stand empty, they are adept at maneuvering—how could they fail to be picked out and appointed? Under Emperors Ling and Xian of Han, eunuchs held power, wicked men controlled the court, and loyal officials were persecuted. The court chose officials wrongly, and commanderies and prefectures recommended talent carelessly. When superiors chose wrongly, local chiefs were not the right men; when recommendations below were slipshod, “Filial and Incorrupt” and “Outstanding Talent” candidates could hardly be called able.

So people of the time mocked the system, saying: “They recommend Outstanding Talent who cannot read; they examine Filial and Incorrupt men whose fathers live apart from them. ‘Pure’ men from cold, poor families are as muddy in conduct as sludge; ‘fine generals’ of high rank are as timid as chickens.” Others said: “In antiquity, those who sought office diligently studied the classics; today, those who seek posts refuse even to manage their livelihood.” Such words were sharp satire of the abuses of the age.

Then ranks and titles were openly priced and displayed like goods in a shop; men scrambling for office paid to buy posts like hucksters in a market. Those with real learning had no access and walked away; those with empty hands sighed at the road to office and turned back. Who paid more received higher rank; who paid less got lower posts. Hence the Eastern Garden piled up money from selling offices, and Cui Lie was mocked for the smell of copper cash on his person. When those above acted thus, those below imitated them; whatever the ruler did, his ministers often did worse.

Officials then fawned and clung to the powerful, speaking privately only of close ties and personal likes; in the villages too people talked and pushed candidates. Directors of Rectitude and officials of the Ministry of Personnel became chief brokers, each putting a price on every post. How could poor but honest scholars have any chance to rise?

Beyond that, uprightness and deviousness are as incompatible as ice and fire. Those who hate the upright detest anyone outside their own faction.

Officials in charge of evaluating and selecting officials colluded with one another, acting as brokers who monopolized the trade, each demanding bribes from those seeking office. Where was there any chance for upright, poor scholars? Things were indeed so.

The upright and the crooked are fundamentally different, like ice and charcoal cannot mix. Those with warped hearts hate the upright and also detest those who will not stand with them. Those who invert the standards of evaluation fear others criticizing them; those who rise by improper means fear being said to have bad reputations. So they collude, fabricate lies, frame people of clean character, invent crimes out of thin air, so that no one dares come forward to help.

Thus Zeng Shen and Min Ziluan (worthy disciples of Confucius) were slandered by Shang Chen (a man of Chu in the Spring and Autumn period), and Confucius and Mozi were smeared with the name of Dao Zhi (the legendary great bandit). Those who held to the Way and kept their integrity were squeezed into the mud; the cunning and hypocritical strutted proudly, as if perched on rainbows. Ordinary people with shallow insight could not tell wrong from right, and instead said that those who kept the Way were sunk and unsuccessful, while those who took crooked paths were seen as knowing how to adapt. The world turned with the wind and drifted with the current—how could it return to virtue and seriously ponder learning? All abandoned the painstaking work of evaluating talent by the rules and turned to bribery and graft, the quick way to get results. This was precisely why the Han dynasty declined; later ages should take it as a deep warning.

Someone asked: “You spoke of the evils of selecting officials through tribute and recommendation in late Han—that hit the mark. If we now wish to learn from the past, avoid the old road to ruin, change the inherited methods of choosing people, keep laws from becoming neglectful playthings, let the vulgar music of Pu and Ba return to the proper tones of peace (correct, refined music), and in time treat early flaws like a small ailment in the skin’s pores—what is to be done? Some scholars look fine and enjoy high repute, yet are empty inside and lack real ability. Choosing people by appearance alone may not yield the worthy; thorough investigation takes too long. What then?”

Baopuzi replied: “To recognize talent counts as wisdom—even sages find it hard. Today, to expect every regional governor and prefect to identify the able accurately before they take office, and to confirm that from first to last they keep their nature and integrity, is indeed not easy. But if all can put aside private interest, exhaust ears, eyes, and mind, not be driven by profit and desire, nor yield to requests from kin and friends…”

To recommend someone for office, one must first calmly and thoroughly examine his character, then inquire widely and verify in detail. One must weigh not only his reputation but also his actual conduct, and cross-check differing accounts so that no one can pass off false claims as truth. His kin should speak well of his filial piety and brotherly affection; his neighbors and township should acknowledge him as trustworthy and conscient about moral duty. For those who have already held minor posts, one should look for signs of loyalty and integrity and for real ability in handling affairs. Just as a small piece of brocade reveals the weaver’s skill, so even a small matter—such as hunting a mole rat—can show a person’s courage.

The selection system for xiucai and xiaolian should continue as before, but scriptural examinations and policy questions should be used to guard against cheating on the answers. Anyone who fails to qualify must not be appointed; violators should be punished and barred from office. If a recommender’s nominee proves unqualified, the regional inspector and prefect should be removed from office; if results are merely unsatisfactory, they should be demoted. Even when qualified candidates are many and unqualified ones few, opportunities for later promotion should not exceed what they were in the past. If someone accepts large bribes—so serious that he recommends unsuitable people—once the facts are verified he should be struck from the rolls of office and forbidden to serve for life, without relief through amnesty; both the person recommended and the recommender are guilty alike.

If this system is tried for a year or two, many xiucai and xiaolian will surely decline to stand for selection, which in itself shows how imprecise imperial recommendation has long been. After that, those who truly cultivate virtue and study diligently will become more numerous.

Officials in office who err in the course of public duty should be dealt with according to law. If they are convicted of corruption and bribery, even when the penalty falls short of death, they should be barred from office for life once the sentence has been carried out or even after an amnesty; in lighter cases, they should be barred for twenty years. Then unscrupulous officials might for that reason reform and become as upright as Boyi and Shuqi. But if, while in office, they pile up wealth from bribes and, once exposed, think only of saving themselves—and are reappointed within days of dismissal—even men as upright as Zeng Shen and Shiyu would turn into robbers like Daozhi. Even if every person chosen by recommendation were truly capable, that would still not make up for corrupt leadership at the top.

Some say that those who argue well need not act accordingly: today someone may excel in scriptural examinations and policy questions—how does that prove he can govern?

Baopu zi replied: In antiquity, even the selection of talent required testing by archery—how much more so for the study of the classics. If the method of examining candidates on the classics were not used, no better way of choosing talent has ever been seen. Lush grass does not grow on barren soil; great fish do not live in shallow waters; penetrating maxims do not issue from the mouths of mediocre men, and distinguished writings do not come from the pens of the dull-witted.

Thus, reading the Hong Fan (Great Plan) shows that Jizi, the worthy minister at the end of the Shang, had the capacity to govern the state; reading the Nine Arts (Fan Li’s strategies for ordering the realm) shows that Fan Li possessed statecraft in his breast; reading the works of Guan Zhong (styled Yiwu) makes clear his ability to settle disorder; perusing the writings of Shen Buhai shows his mastery of the principles by which hegemony is achieved. Today, xiaoliao (Filial and Incorrupt) candidates must pass examinations in the classics without omission or error; xiucai (Flowering Talent) must answer policy questions without straying from the topic—so that talent is not left buried in obscurity.

In choosing senior military officers, one values courage and martial skill and still further tests their stratagem—how much more so for men of letters? Even if examinations cannot ensure that every worthy is selected, they are surely better than no examination at all. If it were now required that all in the realm eligible for gongju (tribute-recommended candidacy) must study diligently, that alone would greatly help rectify customs and transform morals. If people throughout the land feared punishment for reckless recommendation, if the common run no longer sought rank through luck, no longer chased flashy trivialities but returned to the root of learning and inquiry, the Way of the Ru would flourish, private bribery would gradually die away, exceptional talent could be employed, and offices at every level would not stand empty.

Someone said: “You, sir, wish to tighten the gongju system, yet the penalties of proscription are harsh and heavy, and many are anxious.” Reins drawn too tight and the whip applied too often is not the method Bo Le would use; defenses made impenetrable and punishments made severe is not what those who practice virtuous governance wish to see.

Baopu zi replied: Medicines that replenish bone and nourish flesh excel at tonifying the body and prolonging life, yet they cannot treat emergencies such as heatstroke or drowning. Lenient, accommodating policies suit an age of plain honesty, but they cannot rescue a realm in the throes of decline and disorder. When tigers and wolves press close, if one does not take up spear and sword to defend oneself but instead plays the zither and recites poetry, I fail to see how life can be preserved.

The house is already on fire, yet instead of rushing to fight it and haul water to douse the flames, one only bows and paces back and forth—I have never seen fire put itself out that way. To discuss this matter today with people who fancy themselves clever at scheming is like plotting how to catch thieves with Robber Zhi himself.

The realm is already unified, customs are the same across the nine provinces, and institutions and commands ought indeed to be one. Even the small weights on a balance should not differ from place to place; how much more should standards for selecting talent be patchy and without a fixed rule?

Though Jiangnan lies far from the heartland and borders the sea, it has accepted instruction and observed ritual and propriety for more than a thousand years. In the past it was cut off from the center only briefly—less than a century—and Confucian learning was not for that reason abandoned. It is simply that Jiangnan’s territory is smaller than the central plains, so the number of talented people cannot match the center’s. As for those outstanding in virtue and learning, figures such as Ziyou and Zhongren were in no way inferior to scholars of the central regions.

When Wu had just submitted, the tribute scholars who came were told to their faces that they need not sit the examinations. Peace has now lasted nearly forty years, yet they are still not required to examine—a policy that can only make learning in the southeast decline compared with earlier times. That approach treats them instead like an alien people whose culture has not yet opened up; it is not a matter of distinguishing and selecting them fairly. A gentleman still treats others with courtesy by ritual—how much more should officials who are meant to be kindly parents to the people? This is precisely an instance in which statutes invite harm and government measures undermine instruction.

If tribute scholars no longer pass through examinations, they will only polish their outward show and chase reputation; who will then be willing to open a book and study seriously? This is what is meant by giving too much—enough to ruin them. To be sure, some are by nature fond of ancient learning, delight in the written heritage, read not for office and salary but to lose themselves in principle and accept poverty—people such as Fas Gaoqing and Zhou Shengle. Yet one who goes deep in learning and does not pursue rank and profit is perhaps one in ten thousand.

As for Ning Yue, Ni Kuan, and Huang Ba—why they toiled over the classics was not innate love but hardship pressing them to change their lot through the learning of the classics. Had it not been for the age of Emperor Wu, Zhu Maichen, Yan Zhu, and the like might never have taken up books. Today, if there is an easier road to wealth and honor than study, and one lacks an inborn love of learning, who will willingly suffer in vain—beginning as a Confucian student from the humblest chores, then traveling far to find a teacher?

When warfare rises, military affairs are prized and literary culture weakens. The vulgar treat Confucian scholars as servants and the classics as weeds. Why? Because the fame and profit society honors have turned away from reading and inquiry. When talent is not employed, it is like selling a Confucian cap to the peoples of Yue, or offering a long-bearded snake to the people of Huaxia—neither side has any use for what is offered.

If, without regard to near or far, examinations and assessments are clearly applied everywhere alike, people will surely carry book chests a thousand li to seek teachers and friends, and turn money once spent on gifts and social courtesies toward buying texts; such a shift will come about quickly.

Baopuzi said: A person who combines talent, learning, outstanding character, and filial piety is already hard to find. If people in a village or district redirected the money they would normally spend on seeking teachers and friends and on gifts, and used it instead to buy books, their libraries would soon be well stocked.

Baopuzi also said: Even when such people exist, if they lived in the time of Emperors Huan and Ling, when official selection did not weigh wealth but was handled by the responsible offices of the court, someone who had read and mastered the classics and could answer whatever was asked might still be slandered and fail to pass selection. I have often regretted that those in power at the time did not lay down safeguards in advance.

In my view, if the tribute-and-recommendation examinations (imperial recruitment of talent) were to be held the following year, the Confucian officials and men of talent could be asked that same year to draft the various policy questions (cewen) needed for the exams. After the topics were sent to the court, the drafts should be sealed and kept in the palace; only when the exam began would the questions be issued quickly. That would cut off opportunities for favor and connections. All candidates would answer in one place, under the direct supervision of carefully chosen officials from the central offices; contact between candidates and passing of questions would be strictly forbidden until the exam ended. Anyone who broke the rules would be punished without leniency. In that way, hopes of pulling strings could be blocked. A wise ruler should rely on institutions so that people cannot deceive him, rather than hoping that no one will deceive him. What shame is there in setting strict rules?

If a system of testing classical learning were established, the realm might not need to maintain special school officials, yet people would still study diligently on their own. When one looks at the categories used in selecting officials at the time, some included testing whether officials understood laws and statutes; yet among serving officials, high and low, most did not know the law. Some provisions are obscure and hard to understand, while petty clerks at the base are often ignorant and careless—yet they are the ones who try cases. To leave decisions that touch human life in such hands is to treat the people’s lives lightly and to entrust life and death to the uninformed. When superiors do not understand the law, they are misled by subordinates without knowing it; those who draft judgments may be confused themselves and not see whether the law is followed, so cases may not be handled properly. Some decide by guesswork; once they err, they break the law through carelessness and create injustice.

Therefore, just as in testing the classics, one could test whether upright officials know laws and statutes, and appoint them according to rank of achievement and ability. Then there would be fewer officials who manipulated the law and fewer wrongful judgments in the realm.

On Social Interaction discusses how to treat others and choose friends. Baopuzi holds that friendship should not be mixed with hollow sentiment; caring only for outward courtesy while hearts do not truly align is precisely what Yang Xiong criticized. Therefore, even when two people are equal in rank, close in age, and famous, if their aims and integrity differ, he would not befriend them.

Some people, having risen first, put on a haughty air; some forget old ties and distance themselves from friends who have fallen on hard times; some look down on juniors who share their background and tastes; still others judge by office alone, not by character. As a result, those who never find a true patron and languish in their home villages—however deep their talent and pure their conduct—struggle to win recognition; while those who happen to suit the times and hold high office, however shallow and incompetent, are promoted and trusted.

When such people hold power, even someone as insignificant as a tiny insect can shoot to success; with authority in hand and the power to pronounce fortune or disaster, they are radiant in prosperity and collapse quickly when they lose favor. I feel cramped shame for them and am ashamed to live in the same age. Whether one is poor or prosperous is not always within one’s own power, yet the frivolous and unprincipled often cast aside shame: they travel before dawn and run at night, wait at the gates of the powerful, wear ingratiating smiles and speak in low, flattering tones, and carry wine and gifts, calling often to pay court. When after long effort they are still rejected, they ask someone of standing to intercede for them.

When accepted, they rejoice as if a prisoner were suddenly freed; when they fail to connect, they are as distressed as if they had suffered bereavement or illness themselves. Whether the path of office is open or blocked has its allotted course; in conduct, integrity is what matters; success and setback should be accepted as they come—why obsess over connections and patronage? Alas, are such shallow people not contemptible? Human dispositions differ so widely; the gap is immense. I am often moved by this and feel shame on their behalf.

Long ago Zhuangzi saw that Huizi’s retinue had many carriages yet still threw away surplus fish. From that I sigh: people in the world are always in a hurry to cling to the powerful and chase rank and fame. Look at those who rush about in the dust of society—they will not earnestly build virtue and a calling, will not return to the root and seek within themselves, but instead fix their hearts on joining the great and forming factions, and take that to be the most important, most urgent way to live among others.

They treat someone who stands apart like a mountain as dull, stingy, remote, and clumsy, while they call those who bow and scrape, read every expression, and go to meet and send off guests people who truly understand the world. Custom spreads; the crowd chases the downstream current and drifts with the tide—truly something to lament.

Some have shallow virtue yet high position, small capacity yet outsized ambition: at the first word of profit they grow excited; at the sight of a talented person they sit there half asleep. Those in patched clothes, leaning on staves, wearing coarse hemp, carrying book chests—even if their writing could match Sima Xiangru or Yang Xiong, their learning surpass Ma Rong or Yang Xiong—are treated like dust; they are not received or recommended. As for men like Cheng Zheng, Wang Sun, and Luo Pou, riding in carriages pulled by fat horses, in light furs, with gold and jade in their pockets—even if they cannot compose a line, even if they cannot tell soybeans from wheat—they can make the great and powerful run out with shoes on backward, spit out food to receive them, or grasp their hair and hurry to meet them. All such gestures are said to show how eager one is to honor a guest.

I only regret that I do not hold office myself: I have the axe but not the handle, and cannot drive the foul to the four distant corners or banish them to the far northern wilds. Though their power is enough to move mountains and drain seas, and a shout seems to lift a clay image into the clouds, I have no leisure to call at their doors. Yet many lower themselves, wear pleading faces, crawl forward on their knees, only to win these people’s acquaintance and profit from it. Pitiful—the hearts of people in the world differ so, and the gap between the worthy and the unworthy is so vast!

The reason I was born in the same age as sage rulers yet have remained trapped in low and humble circumstances is this: those I once looked up to and could not reach have now fallen so far behind that I can overtake them. Is this not because people apply their hearts differently, so that the distance between them appears so vast and their capacities so unequal? Those I once looked up to and could not reach now cannot even keep pace with me—can this be without cause? Yet when a person’s nature truly does not suit a given path, each follows what he loves in order to settle his life; I cannot alter that.

Someone pressed me further: “As ages turn and affairs change, antiquity and the present each have their own priorities. Virtue and achievement are established by oneself, but reputation depends on others to spread it. Gold and jade can cross unpredictable dangers because they are carried in a light boat; the spirit bird can gather in the high distant sky because a whirlwind lifts it upward; the orchid’s fragrance grows rich because a clear breeze carries it; and worthy men in obscurity can rise from field and garden when a true friend lends support. Now you, sir, in dealing with others, must first examine their conduct; in drawing close to people, you must also sift their character. You stand alone, keep your distance from peers among the famous, make the whole age your enemy, and draw the resentment of ordinary people—is this in keeping with the lofty principle of harmonizing one’s light and merging with the dust (heguang tongchen) so as to embrace the multitude? If one associates only with those equal in wisdom, then humble households would never receive a figure as exalted as the Duke of Zhou; if one keeps company only with those equal in talent, then Confucius would have had no disciples admitted to the inner chamber for deeper instruction.”

Baopuzi replied: “I have heard that one who is careful in choosing companions does not miss those truly worth befriending, whereas one who associates widely and at random often only begins to befriend the right people afterward. If one associates only with those equal in rank, humble households would never receive a figure as exalted as the Duke of Zhou; if one keeps company only with those equal in talent, then Confucius would have had no disciples admitted to the inner chamber for deeper instruction.”

Ge Hong said: I have heard that if one is careful in choosing whom to associate with, one does not easily lose the right people; if one casually befriends many, one often regrets it later. Therefore the ancient sages always examined and chose first, then entered into relations—they did not befriend first and select afterward. What you speak of is the counsel of outstanding men; what I hold to is the resolve of one who withdraws from the world. You say that “jade floats and birds soar high,” each for its own reason—that can indeed count as a view of another school.

I believe it is better to be an unrecorded piece of jade, a Peng bird that does not take flight, an orchid that does not show off, a person who does not join factions, than to harm thereby the preciousness of a night-shining pearl, the vastness of the great Peng, the fragrance held in flowers and grass, or the unfading renown of the orchid. Moreover, when a person’s reputation exceeds his real ability and his position outruns his talent, those who live in such a situation seldom escape trouble and humiliation; what honor or blessing is there in associating with them? Seen in this light, to befriend such people—even if one gains prominence through them—is not worth valuing. Clinging to them and being harmed is like sheltering under a rotten tree and being struck by a falling branch. If they cannot even avoid their own distress, how can they save me from having my head broken and body injured?

I have heard that the great man can find joy in himself and holds external things lightly; for ordinary people, unless compelled, they are not worth the effort of association. Even if there were a thousand such people, they would be no more than lice gathered on a garment or warts on the body; to lose them, even ten thousand, would be like dust leaving lofty Mount Song or Mount Tai, or withered branches falling from a great forest. How can one think it beneficial to possess them or damaging to lose them?

As for friends, they must be upright, sincere, and widely informed—people who can point out faults and correct errors; who while alive do not hide what should be said, and after death do not cover up the other’s wrongs; who keep faith from beginning to end and do not change because circumstances shift. Yet such people are truly hard to find. Some are silent or speak yet their aims differ; some love and hate differently; some are close at first then grow distant; still others forget faith at the sight of profit. Today people associate like birds and fish flocking together, or like ice and charcoal in the same vessel—who could expect such relations to stay harmonious for long?

Father and son share a bond given by nature, and in principle their likes and dislikes ought to be largely the same; yet Zizheng and Ziju held views that diverged from each other, and Nanshan and Boqi once disputed what was true and what was false. People may meet face to face while their inner minds remain worlds apart—a state of things as old as history itself. To lump everyone’s thoughts into one mold would be exceedingly hard.

When people of the world make friends, they often ignore whether their aims align and chase instead after reputation and power: close when fortune rises, distant when it falls. They see another’s fault and do not urge him to mend it; they see him lost and do not reach out to save him. When gain appears, they keep it for themselves and refuse to share; when disaster strikes, each seeks only his own escape and will not look after the other. Where profit is to be had, they grab first and will not yield; in moments of peril, they betray friends to save themselves. Friendships of that kind are worse than having none at all.

The world is not wholly without people worth befriending; it is only that friends who truly help are few and friends who drag one down are many. Even sages find it hard to see others clearly. To expect someone of limited talent and weak judgment in reading people to make friends widely—and on that basis to hope he will meet many who can share good times and bad without changing in affection, and who will stand with him through danger and hardship—I do not think that is easy. It would be less difficult to hunt for fine jade on a little mound of earth or to look for a luan or feng phoenix in a wren’s nest. I do not mean that south of Mount Lantian and in the cinnabar caves there are no fine jigs or phoenixes at all; I mean only that such people and such things are exceedingly rare.

People’s conduct and what they love differ, as gold sinks in water while a feather floats; when aims and tastes clash, it is like fire rising and water flowing down. Where natures cannot harmonize, not even the creative transformation of Heaven and Earth could make them the same—how then could one force it?

By nature I am slow and dull, and by temperament I am earnest and unhurried; I take no pleasure in amusements and pastimes, and I will not even watch games like pitch-pot or board contests. As for galloping lightly, running fast, hunting, or roaming for the sake of scenery, I do none of these; above all I dislike frivolous speech and disrespectful joking.

These were the things people of the time delighted in; everyone was sunk in them, yet I would not touch any of them, so kin and friends kept an especially wide distance. I also held to uprightness and was given to speaking every word of counsel; harsh truths, like medicine or a whetstone, few could accept with a good grace. I wanted others to study hard, not to throw themselves into rushing and rivalry, to give up gambling, and to curb heavy drinking. Such ways often failed to please ordinary people.

To file down one's edges for the sake of fitting in, to force agreement with the world and go against one's own heart to please the crowd—that is as hard as choosing comfort and refusing honest toil. When one knows this and still will not drop gambling or drinking, can one deny that one neither reads the world aright nor handles weighty matters well? Relationships that cannot endure: meet, then part—and both sides gain a name for coldness and lose the credit of beginning and ending well. Deep friendship breeds affection; shallow ties breed distrust. That is the way things are; how can one fail to choose friends with care?

To want only banquet toasts, a clap on the back, a brief clasp of hands, yet hope for ever more friends and demand that every bond stay whole to the end—that is what I dread. Someone asked: “Then must one have no friends at all?”

Baopuzi answered: “How could that be? One who fears water need not give up boats; one who fears hurt need not throw away the axe. Friendship is old as time. If heaven and earth and yin and yang do not meet, the myriad things cannot rest in harmony; if upper and lower do not speak the same mind, purpose goes astray. When the qi of heaven and earth cannot interchange in peace, yin and yang are cut off; when hearts and aims pull apart, the realm cannot stand as one polity.

“Yet friendship is easy to start and hard to keep. The trouble is wrong company, or selling the greater good for a little gain until the tie is broken. The Book of Changes praises bonds like gold and orchid; the Book of Songs sings of many friends; even with brothers, a friend may be nearer. To weigh carefully the three kinds of friends who bring benefit—that is what the sages approved.”

Students and disciples drew closer day by day; vicious words and deeds had no room to arise. Guan Zhong was spared execution and went on to dominate the states; Ziyuan gave up his post as pavilion chief and rode in a fine carriage—all because of the power of friendship.

A single string cannot play the harmonious tunes of Shao and Xia; one color cannot weave a splendid dragon robe; one ingredient cannot make a broth as fine as what simmered in Yi Yin’s cauldron; one tree cannot grow a grove as dense as the forest of Deng. Xuanyuan, the legendary immortal peak that reaches the sky, is built from many stones piled together; the vast Southern Sea is filled by countless rivers flowing into it.

Hold up a bright mirror and a crooked cap shows at once; when Xihe, the sun god, shines over the earth, bent shadows stand out; apply the press and straightener to wood and warped grain can be corrected; choose good friends and the practice of mutual support in cultivating benevolence and virtue can flourish. Those who see clearly know this: if you wish to advance, take as friends people who surpass you; those you befriend should share your aims. When you are together, you discuss principle and deepen character; when you go out into the world, you act in concert and hold each other up. In hard times you may share humble work such as fishing; when fortune is ample you may together take up the work of ordering society. In quiet times you may study subtle doctrine; in danger you may save one another. Such friends do not leave Tan and Qing alone with the fame of steadfast loyalty to the land, nor Wang and Gong alone with the tale of friends setting out to serve. For these reasons friendship is something to hold dear.

Yet to know a friend truly is not easy. Rank and profit decide who stays near and who leaves, and can break oaths sworn unto death; small frictions, growing over time, wear away bonds that seemed unbreakable. Some forget old depth of feeling—a thing to mourn; over a slight grievance or rebuke they turn on each other and cast aside what they once shared. The deep friendship of Yuan Bo and Juzhong survives only in the past; the story of Zhang Er and Chen Yu turning on each other plays out again and again in our own age. Looking back and thinking of the present, one can only sigh.

The phoenix on the paulownia does not roost on the same branch as the owl; the qilin and the spirit tortoise do not run with wolves and jackals; a clear spring does not mingle with muddy water; the humane and clear-sighted do not keep company for long with the cruel and muddled. And yet some people, little by little under bad influence, leave the straight path; under violent oppression, people are injured.

Someone asked: “What does it mean to be skilled at friendship?”

Baopuzi replied: “Even when a gentleman breaks with a friend, he does not speak of him as an enemy; how then could he use hurtful words when they merely disagree? For a friend one may give up one’s life—how much less should one wrangle over fame and rank?

One who is skilled at friendship stays close without losing respect, and gets along without blindly agreeing. When a friend errs, one admonishes him seriously; when others point out one’s own faults, one corrects them at once without shame. One must not withhold counsel for fear of offending, nor refuse advice because it stings. One must not use clever argument to hide one’s errors, nor dress up faults in fine language.

One must not seem close outwardly while estranged within, nor hide one’s true view while always saying yes, nor obey to the face while hating behind the back. Do not be jealous when another surpasses you; tolerate his shortcomings and help him develop his strengths; do not broadcast his faults but praise his virtues. Then outwardly there is no quarrel and inwardly no rivalry. In this way one can preserve the cordial friendship described in the Xiaoya “Luming” in the Book of Odes, and avoid the resentment satirized in the Xiaoya “Famu.”

If one makes friends lightly—careless when joining, indifferent when parting; quick to warm to someone yet untroubled when affection cools—then at first one may be as inseparable as body and shadow, but in the end one may be like the stars Shen and Shang, never able to meet. Deep affection turns to sharp resentment; mutual support becomes enmity; regret then comes too late.

In the late Han, when the dynasty declined, the ruler’s authority could not be restored. The duty of serving the public waned and the scramble for fame and profit rose. People took flouting custom for loftiness and treating rescue of the age as self-disgrace; ritual between high and low collapsed and basic human relations fell into disorder. Those in office no longer did their work wholeheartedly; they abandoned the root and chased the branches, turned from reality and pursued empty reputation. Some neglected official business yet won a good name for it; others piled up wicked deeds yet were praised for great merit.

They all drove horses day and night, braving cold and heat to run to the doors of the powerful, buying hollow praise through the mouths of those in charge and purchasing unearned posts from sellers of office. Some fought over what they wanted and even killed one another.”

When Gongshu and Weichang saw how things stood, they were deeply indignant. Unable to set matters right and unwilling to go on watching, they threw themselves into writing and shut their doors to visitors. That was indeed acting from righteous anger, but they overcorrected in some ways; it was not a steady rule one could live by for long. It is enough to keep your distance from circles whose aims differ from yours and to guard carefully against the roots of flattery and excess. Why go so far as to strip naked, kneel before one another, or fast in order to mock people who enjoy good food?

If you know a course of action is wrong yet keep urging it and will not stop, the end is serious disorder. Therefore whatever conduct ritual and righteousness reject may be decisively abandoned.

End of Book 16 of the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi.

Baopuzi states: A swift steed (sao) may strain its sinews and outrun the sun’s shadow, yet it cannot tread ice or ford deep water. A fierce tiger may roar like thunder and bring down prey, yet it cannot rise into clouds or fly through the sky. When great swans are caged, they cannot spread their wings; when nimble sparrowhawks are trapped on a mat or couch, they cannot strike like lightning. Every thing has its limits—and so do people.

Thus one who skillfully harmonizes Yin and Yang may not also excel at every kind of business or drafting documents; one who deploys grand strategy may not handle every minute courtesy or petty detail. Huizi had outstanding talent for assisting in government, yet could not steer a boat through perilous waves. Emperor Gaozu of Han was a hero among rulers, yet was no master of managing estates or tending fields. Huaiyin (Han Xin) was a peerless general, yet could not live by farming or trade and escape hunger and cold. Zhou Bo was a pillar who stabilized the realm, yet was awkward at answering questions about money, grain, accounts, or legal documents.

If you discard someone’s strengths because of a weakness, extraordinary talent will go unused; if you demand flawless attention to every small propriety, you bury their ability to govern the world and benefit the people.

The realm can be pacified in the northwest, yet cannot raise the land in the southeast; sun and moon cannot shine into a crooked cave, and strong winds cannot stir waves at the bottom of a well. For pulling teeth, pine and catalpa are no match for an inch of matting; for making ear ornaments, great beams are worse than a wren’s feather. When shooting birds with a sling, a treasure worth a thousand is less useful than a pellet of mud; when mending clothes, a long sword is inferior to a needle a few fen long. Why make an elephant lie down to catch mice, or put a great peng bird in charge of crowing at dawn?

Therefore Jiang Ya (Lord Jiang, Jiang Ziya) once lived by selling food and went unrecognized—until King Wen and King Wu of Zhou employed him. Jiang Sheng (Jiang Wan) seemed slack and dull while magistrate of Baili County, yet later ranked among the foremost ministers of the court.

End of Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, Volume Seventeen.

Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, Volume Eighteen: “Selecting Talent” (Zhuo Cai).

Magnificent writing and rich literary grace are not something a blind person (mengmu) can appreciate; outstanding and exceptional talent is likewise not something people of shallow insight can recognize. When the eyes cannot see, the emperor’s dragon-embroidered ceremonial robe and ordinary coarse cloth are all the same. When intelligence and discernment are insufficient to know talent, the worthy and the mediocre are lumped together. What cannot be seen cannot be valued; when recognition is denied, harm follows.

People’s likes, dislikes, and judgments have never been the same from age to age; when the times change, customs shift, and the worth of the same object differs. The jade pendant (huang) of the Xia dynasty once fetched a price equal to a city; offered for sale today, it might go for less than copper or iron. Thus one who once hid in the hills to perfect his will was honored as a lofty man; now he might be dismissed as a good-for-nothing scholar. The pillar of state prized in an enlightened age becomes a criminal in a dark one; the upright integrity praised by the ancients may in later generations be read as feeble incompetence.

Those who are grand, transcendent, and walk the right path have virtue that rises far above a wall several zhang high; their breadth of mind is deeper than the waters of Lüliang. Hence the short-sighted cannot admire them, and the shallow and narrow-minded cannot see through to them. Because they differ from others, people belittle them; because they do not flatter, people hate them. Neither cherishing nor employing them—what more is there to say?

Then some throw dust on white jade and stain what was pure; others inflict wounds on skin as fine as jade. The crowd joins in mockery and attack, besieging those who stand apart: Zeng Shen (disciple of Confucius, famed for honesty) was smeared with the name of robber; Chao Fu and Xu You (legendary recluses) were slandered as thieves. Unless there is someone as discerning as the sun and moon, who can see subtle truth, who can pull jade from mud or lift pearls from muddy water?

Even jade scepters (gui) and ceremonial blades (zhang) set out in the market may fail to sell—how much less when they lie buried in uncut stone? A rare talent wishes to show his skill yet is blocked—how much more one who hides in the mountains in obscurity? Sun Bin wished to deploy hidden stratagems yet was harmed by Sima Qian and suffered the bin punishment; Han Fei hoped to build the state yet was killed by Li Si. Jia Yi was full of ambition and had plans to govern the realm yet was pushed aside by military men; Liu Xiang (Zi Zheng), loyal and straight, had the talent to save a crisis yet was framed by Hong Gong and Shi Xian. Bian He, offering jade, wept until he bled embracing the raw stone; Qin Xi, remonstrating, dashed his head in anger—all for this reason. Jade and the wise versus the foolish are not hard to tell apart; it is only that people’s love for precious things runs deeper than their love for talent.

If precious treasures are mistaken for ordinary things, even when they truly match what one loves, one may still suffer mutilation and bear false accusations for generations. How much more so when worthy talent often goes unrecognized and is not what those in power urgently need. Slanderers fabricate charges against others, while corrupt ministers fear that loyal and upright people will harm their interests. Those of improper conduct dislike being bound by rules, just as one who walks naked at night hates bright lamps. Thus the good name and conduct of the worthy are often suppressed and not allowed to spread, while fabricated slander appears first, as if a shadow had formed before the body was seen.

It is not surprising that talent rarely finds an opportunity like that of Bian He of Chu, who offered jade and was never truly appreciated in his lifetime. Bian He once presented a jade rough to the king of Chu, but it was taken for ordinary stone, and he was punished; only when the rough was later identified as true jade was it acknowledged. Those who take jade for stone will also take stone for jade; those who see the worthy as fools will also see fools as worthy. Mistaking stone for jade does little harm; mistaking fools for worthy people is a sign that the state is about to perish. The sign of a perishing state means that even if the state still stands for a time, it is bound to fall—like someone whose pulse has ceased but who still breathes: death is inevitable. How can one not be cautious? Alas, how sad that people refuse to think this through.

In antiquity Confucius was the supreme sage, yet in the east he was burdened by Qi and in the south obstructed by Zi Xi, chief minister of Chu. Wen Zhong was a great worthy; at first he did not fit the customs of Chu, and though he later achieved merit, he still found no peace. For such people to build a lifetime of achievement is truly not easy. Jielü and Xuanli were precious jades—only merchants like Tao Zhugong and Yidun could afford them. A weight of a thousand jun could be lifted only by strong men like Meng Ben and Xia Yu. A piece like “White Snow” on the qin could be played only by one skilled at tuning like Lingsu. Exceptional ability can be employed only by a wise ruler.

Yet treasures like Yaoling and Guangye do not damage their quality and sell cheaply to those who cannot tell their worth simply because no one seeks them. The great bell and the Zhou tripod do not lower their value to please the taste of dwarfs because they are set aside. Qinse made from Tong wood of Yiyang and fine timber of Yunhe do not stop sounding to chase vulgar, licentious fame because no one uses them. Outstanding virtue likewise should not, because it is suppressed, change its integrity and bend to the world.

Therefore, a treasure jade like the He-Shi bi could still become unsold goods nobody wanted; supple fine timber might be cast aside unused; ore for a crimson blade, if it never met a master smith like Ou Yezi, could not pass through his furnace and forging; talent like Yuan and Kai might in the end never see the day when the court opened its four gates and widely gathered the worthy.

— End of Baopuzi Waipian, Chapter 18

Baopuzi Waipian, Chapter 19

Appointment

Baopuzi said: My friend Master Ju Ling had a mind at ease and level, plain and unadorned, almost forgetting the distinction between form and spirit. Outwardly he did not strike poses meant to startle the age; inwardly he did not lodge his heart in striving to “do something.” He immersed himself in ancient writings and took that as joy, forgetting sorrow. By day he raced the afterglow of the setting sun with Xihe (the deity who drives the sun-chariot); by night he read by the spare light of Wangshu (a name for the moon). However deep the principle, he would probe it; however fine the wording, he would study it.

Yet his carriage and horses never entered the gates of the powerful and eminent, and his letters never reached houses of influence. Thus his name never passed beyond his humble doorway, and he himself never left the fields.

Then Doctor Yiliang came to visit and reproached him, saying: “I have heard that when a hidden dragon in the deep abyss rises at last, dark clouds follow in its train; when the teaching of the Dao is put into practice, outstanding people stir themselves. Therefore on the broad crossroads one hears the songs of the worthy, and between the tripod and the meat-offering stand appear traces of those who soar aloft. Once talent is recommended, it can win employment beyond price; once abilities are deployed, high position follows. Its brilliance lights Yanggu (where the sun rises); its fame spreads through the nine regions of the world. Merit and blessing return to oneself, and reputation carries immeasurably far.

“Therefore a road only a few zhang ahead—if one will not go, even legs swift as the wind cannot arrive; beneath a house pillar or short rafter—the place is low, yet if one will not stir, even wings like those of the great hong and kun birds cannot fly up. How much more when you, sir, halt your steps beyond the great wilderness and fold your wings on the quiet branch of the parasol tree—how then can you spread your wings in swift flight, chase the sun’s shadow, and beat upward straight into the azure sky?

“Human life passes in a flash; the time we lodge in the world is swift and cannot come again. The wise, seeing frost fall, know that hard ice must follow; at the beginning they already understand that all things have an end. The six dragons that drive sun and moon race hurriedly through heaven and earth; one soon grows white-haired, and old age draws near. For this the ancients sighed as they watched water flow away with the current, and grieved as they saw time fly through the gap like a door crack.

“Sir, you were born with outstanding talent enough to bear up an age, a breast full of heroic brilliance and far-reaching strategy beyond ordinary people; your literary flow surges like rolling waves, and six kinds of rare stratagems lie hidden in your heart.”

Yet he could not ride the violent upward whirlwind to soar high, nor could he spread a pure and upright character’s fame through the nine heavens. His talent had no chance to shine even at the foot of the ritual vessels’ display, and his body could not escape the toil of carrying firewood on his back. It was like playing refined music where no one understands music, or selling ceremonial caps in a land of disheveled hair where the rites of Huaxia are ignored. Alone he brooded in the forest of letters, intent on probing profound principles; he hid precious thoughts in his heart and set elegant words upon the page. Yet he lived in poverty, often in want, and his spirit wore itself out upholding lofty purity. It was like burying a foot of fine jade deep in the soil, or sealing brocade in layer upon layer of chests—never to gain wealth in the end. And who would recognize treasures buried and forgotten?

When the dragon-horse is tethered, it looks no different from a lame donkey; when a treasured blade keeps its edge sheathed, it cannot show how it differs from a lead knife. A great fish does not dwell in hoofprints that have pooled into puddles; the great peng does not perch in tangled wormwood. I hope the master will leave his hidden lair and take the path where ambition is fulfilled and talent revealed; set aside the quiet of guarding the courtyard alone, and wake in time after seeing the parable of the two mice. That parable tells of someone taking refuge in a well yet still facing black and white mice gnawing the rope—a reminder not to forget how precarious life is. I hope the master will cross remote valleys, climb to a high place, put on bright and splendid robes, and change his plain dress; while the morning wind rises, set out swiftly and do not hesitate until nightfall. May the master win fame and power in high station and enjoy the blessings of bell and tripod. To hide like Bo Cheng Zi Gao as a common man—why must one overly admire Boyi and Shuqi living on ferns in seclusion?

Master Ju Ling replied: I have heard that the subtle, unfathomable changes between heaven and earth are deep in chaos and hard to discern. Misfortune and fortune weave through each other as they depend and transform; rise and fall follow fullness and emptiness in endless cycle. Even one who moves swiftly cannot outrun the shadow that follows behind; even one who delights in achievement cannot escape defeat when circumstance dictates. One who only mends the frayed end of things is not as wise as governing from where no form has yet appeared; one who only tidies what is already formed is not as wise as returning to the mysterious, simple root. Therefore, those who understand the inchworm willingly bend first, so they may preserve the chance to stretch; those who understand how the world opens and blocks do not grow wretched when fortune turns against them, nor grow reckless when fortune favors them.

Heaven and Earth transform and give birth to the myriad things, and each thing takes its own shape: some are restless, some still; some love to fly, some are content to lie low. Gold and jade are valued for their precious weight; feathers for their light grace. Narrow-minded people are hemmed in by the grime of the world; those who penetrate the subtle roam at ease in clarity and emptiness.

A cesspool takes in runoff from the ground and the water turns muddy; the great sea takes in a hundred rivers yet is not filled to overflowing. Small fish and shrimp are happy in the mud; the red dragon (chì chí) soars in the high heavens. Those who crave scented bait satisfy their mouths and bellies—and in the end lose their lives for it; those who love plain non-action (wuwei) keep natural harmony and qi, and thus incline toward long life. Those who understand subtle signs are not confused even when nothing has yet appeared; those who do not grasp the omens of fortune and disaster do not start even when a strong crossbow is before them. Each person has what he loves—who would lightly change what he seeks?

I have heard that the five jades cannot cut themselves free from the rocks of Mount Song; the flying serpent, without clouds, cannot ride the lightning; Longyuan (the sword), if no one wields it, cannot cut rhinoceros hide or fierce beasts; the great bell Jing Zhong, if no one strikes it, will not sound with a deep boom. Golden fungus waits for the autumn wind before it shows its glow; the oriole (cāng gēng) waits until warmth spreads through heaven and earth before it sings in long trills. Qilü (fine steeds) do not gallop off recklessly on a whim; the gentleman does not use unworthy conduct to ruin his name. When the times are blocked, he stays hidden and does not take office; when the moment comes, he rises in the court.

A scholar who hurries to show off is like making golden fungus shine before the autumn wind, or making the oriole sing before the warmth has come; a woman who offers herself is likewise judged in chaste. Why give up the lofty resolve of “washing the ears” and living apart, and imitate those who carry the meat board to win rank and favor? “Washing the ears” refers to Xu You’s refusal of the throne and withdrawal from the world; “carrying the meat board” (fù zǔ) means offering meat to gain merit and a name.

In hardship, Yu Shun plowed on Mount Li, working in obscurity yet completing his task; Jiang Shang was once driven away by a foolish old woman; Fan Li was insulted and thrust into a basket of urine; Ning Qi hid his talent in plowing and herding. When fortune turned, Han Xin laid down his fishing rod and was honored as king; Wen Zhong cast off straw sandals and put on blue official robes; Fu Yue set aside his wall-building tools and joined in governing the realm; Guan Zhong slipped his shackles and became chief minister. The gentleman hides his gifts and waits for the right moment; he stores up virtue so he may act. Without the right time he does not serve; without the right ruler he does not attend. Whether he is stuck or smooth depends on what meets him; whether he serves or withdraws is not yoked to external things.

When the right moment does not come, one does not take office; when there is no ruler worth serving, one does not go to serve. Whether one is in hardship or success, one follows opportunity; whether one serves or withdraws is not bound by external things.

In quiet retreat one can be a model among recluses; when one goes out to act, one can be an exemplary minister like the ancient worthies Yuan and Kai. Some establish their name through thought and writing; some build merit for the state. The paths differ, but the ultimate destination and aim are one.

A scholar may act in ways worthy of respect, yet cannot make worldly people respect him; he may have talent fit for great responsibility, yet cannot make the world employ him. When he wears coarse cloth, eats wild greens, and fishes for a living, he is content and satisfied, as if he would live so all his life; when he wears official robes, rides a light carriage, and holds high rank, he still feels these belong to him naturally, as ordinary as wearing common clothes. That is how the perfected person (zhiren) meets his circumstances.

If treasures like jade lie on the mat without being gathered, or one dwells in narrow quarters yet cannot keep pure conduct, that is my fault. That kindred spirits are few and fame and rank do not come—that is because the world takes jade for stone and the phoenix for a common bird, not my failing.

Eagerly wanting others to understand oneself and grieving because one’s situation is unfulfilled—that is the ordinary person’s mood. Broadening the mind to nourish spirit, being plain and without greed—that is the aim of one who has no worry. When the time comes and the Way is put into practice, a person of great capacity does not rejoice and grow complacent because of it. Between heaven and earth, one who knows how to rest in fate does not grieve.

As for chasing goods worth ten thousand in gold merely to get a sale price of ten or twenty cash, wasting one’s energy—I have no leisure for such things.

—End of Baopuzi (Outer Chapters), Scroll 19

—Baopuzi (Outer Chapters), Scroll 20: Ming Shi (Name and Reality)

A disciple asked: “I have heard that in the late Eastern Han, during the reigns of Emperor Ling and Emperor Emperor Xian, judgment of character was confused and wrong. Outstanding talent languished without recognition, while the greedy and unworthy rose to power. Reputation and reality did not match, and value was not set by the thing itself. People took those skilled at scheming and worldly maneuvering for the capable, and those poor at flattery and down on their luck for fools. What is the reason for this?”

Baopuzi replied: “When thunder rolls, some people do not hear it; when the sun, moon, and stars move across the sky, some do not see them. Is it only when ears and eyes are faulty that this happens? When the mind is clouded, it is the same. Thus, to hear words of supreme truth and not understand is not for lack of ears; to see exceptional talent and fail to recognize it is not for lack of eyes—it is that one’s power of hearing does not reach what is subtle, and one’s sight does not discern what is extraordinary.

“Those broad in mind and far in aim are still and firm as mountains; those narrow in capacity and short in aim are like duckweed blown by the wind or floating weeds carried by water. Mountains are firm, so nothing can shake them; duckweed drifts, so it follows the current and does not stay.

“If you compare talent to goods, what is rare and precious and kept carefully in store waiting for a buyer is often hard to sell; what is hawked aloud with gongs and drums, even if ordinary, is easy to dispose of. If you compare talent to trees, great trees rooted on Mount Song or Mount Tai, with crowns high and shade wide, may win no appreciation; trees beside busy roads, though crooked, small, and soon to rot, will still be taken for use. Hence among the vessels used in state sacrifice there are objects made from withered poplar, while in deep mountains and hidden valleys there are catalpa and oak never felled.

“Therefore those with empty fame soar like mole crickets and lizards into the clouds; those whose name and substance match yet go unappreciated sink like green dragons into the nine springs. Then small sparrows ride the wind high, while the divine phoenix folds its wings and hides in the depths; blades of lead pass for the Tai’e sword, and dog-and-goat mediocrity compares itself to tiger and wolf. When flatterers take wealth and treasure as strong wings, there is no height they cannot reach.”

If one takes factional ties as one's vessel, then even distant places can be reached. Add to this rising early, working diligently, and standing in respectful attendance, and one can also anticipate the ruler's wishes and comply with his instructions—such people find it easier to gain influence. They are glib and skilled at flattery, appearing eloquent and capable; they hear words of uncertain origin yet pose as learned; inwardly treacherous yet outwardly mild, they seem benevolent and generous; their conduct is corrupt while their speech is clean, so they seem incorruptible; they love to expose others' faults and appear loyal; they ignore taboos and speak bluntly without restraint, and thus seem upright. For these reasons, they often succeed everywhere they go.

Moreover, all who look up to me and rely on me hope that I can help them; those who do not come to seek me, I naturally find hard to draw close. This too is the ordinary way of human feeling. The worthy are always few, the foolish always many. When the many band together, they cover one another's faults; the worthy are few and weak, and often stand alone without support. The crafty bolster one another and block the right path; outstanding worthies remain in low station, unknown to the world.

The Yijing uses “pulling up couch grass, the roots come with it” (ba mao lian ru) as an image of auspicious mutual attraction among kindred spirits—today that moral principle has decayed. Instead, a crowd of the unworthy and untalented usurps high place. Those who sit too high will in the end fall like the kang dragon, weeping until their tears run dry. Thus in Chu, Zixi drove out the great sage Confucius; Zang Cang slandered the renowned Mencius (Meng Ke). Even Confucius and Mencius could not escape such harm—how much less can others. This affliction seems to have existed since heaven and earth were opened; not one generation alone has suffered it. Looking back through past and present, such abuses are too many to count.

Then lame, inferior horses raise their heads and pull splendid carriages, while fine steeds are left to graze in the wild. Those who hold office without fulfilling their duties bring the state to ruin and the people to hardship; disorder between high and low arises precisely from this. Some are devoured by worms with no one to bury them; some are forced to flee as far as Shen or Hai; some suffer the torture of having their tendons drawn out on the beams of the ancestral temple; some perish at Wangyi Palace. All these calamities came because those chosen were not truly capable, while the loyal and talented were not employed.

Therefore a wise ruler strives to gather the worthy, urgently promotes outstanding talent, clears the path for those who have been held back, and strictly guards against blocked channels and the obscuring of the capable. Where there is genuine merit to be entrusted, one should not be bound by whether the man was once a butcher or a fisherman; where words have been examined and are truly workable, they should be adopted even if they come from a soldier on frontier duty. Some were first recommended from humble stations “below the ox's mouth,” yet later rose above the whole court.

Some people began as commoners beneath the ox’s mouth and were later raised above the assembled ministers; some were once in prison and later entrusted with governing the realm. They built illustrious achievements, expanded territory, brought distant lands to submission, established authority and merit, and left enduring foundations for later ages.

The upright are like a straight plumb line—crooked timber often hates them; the clean and fair often become the enemies of the wicked. If a ruler cannot see what is hidden with deep, discerning insight, he has no choice but to rely on recommendations from men of power. Yet looking back at those who held power through the ages, those they recommended were usually people who attached themselves to them; those they promoted were always people who could benefit them first. They crushed those they feared and promoted those they favored: those feared were often the impartial and selfless; those favored were often members of their private factions. When fair men are employed, wicked cliques fall apart and the state moves toward stability and prosperity; when many private factions gain power, the ruler’s authority is seized and ruin gradually begins.

When powerful ministers crush those they fear, scolding alone seems insufficient; even punishments such as cutting off feet or noses do not satisfy them—they must remove the person entirely to feel at ease. When they promote those they favor, praise never seems enough; even if they raise someone above their own rank, their wish is still unfulfilled, so they must frame others to install their own people. Thus those who die wronged and those dismissed without fault have existed since ancient times.

Those who grasp the great Way and accord with the true Way stand apart in excellence, with far-reaching talent and exceptional capacity; their hearts are pure and white, as cautious as walking on thin ice, their thought as broad as heaven and earth, their ability comparable to the ancient ministers Yuan and Kai. They hold to the right path and dwell quietly in humble homes, still as a deep pool, steady as a high mountain. They would rather keep themselves pure and endure hardship than bow low and force agreement; they willingly hunger and suffer poverty in narrow lanes to temper lofty integrity. They gather in their talents and preserve their true nature, waiting for life to end naturally; if the time is not right they do not take office; if it is not according to ritual they do not act. Wearing coarse cloth and eating vegetables, they are not gloomy for it; growing old without achieving their aim, they do not resent it for it. How could they shave down a height like Mount Tai just to fit the hole in a chisel handle? How could they fold wings that shade the sky to do something as small as the cock’s crow at dawn? Unwilling to take a place on the official path, they are pressed beneath mediocre ranks, frustrated and unfulfilled.

They abandon the groves where luan birds and phoenixes would roost, yet choose to enter wastelands overgrown with bitter orange and thorns. Like owls fighting over rotting rat flesh, they scramble for fame and gain—how is that not trading a great integrity for petty profit?

Moreover, the outward bearing of great sages often seems clumsy, and the flavor of their character extremely plain. They are quietly self-sufficient, so detached that they almost seem ignorant. Few understand them, yet they do not grieve over it; when the times fail them and they are not employed, they do not grow restless. Even if for days they eat only wild greens and coarse grain, they will not exchange that for a lavish feast gained without righteousness; even if they wear rough cloth and can barely keep themselves clothed for a year, they will not enjoy a fox-fur robe obtained against the Way.

They would rather let their hair hang loose and rest at ease, holding fast to what they already possess, than bow and fawn to win what they do not need. They do not associate with those of shallow virtue in high position; they do not draw near those whose reputation does not match reality; they do not pursue wealth and honor; they do not approach those who rely on power, act brutally, or scheme with deceit. They give no reply to petty talk and clever disputation from the world, and they do not follow those who flatter and submit in order to cling to power.

Outwardly they seem dull, yet their aims are lofty; their faces may be unkempt, yet their conduct is pure and upright. Steadfast as Mount Song and Mount Tai, no scale could measure their height; broad as the great sea, no bushel or peck could gauge their depth. Their lofty purity and depth cannot be fathomed, yet they keep their inner talent and virtue hidden. In their eyes, the frivolous and grasping are no more than weeds in the field. Their integrity rises above the autumn clouds; their spirit of withdrawal from the world seems to dwell as far off as the ninth heaven.

Even poverty and low status cannot coerce them by might; even danger and hardship cannot sway them with profit. What they pursue and revere can be heard of but hardly exhausted; the integrity they uphold can be seen but hardly judged. Thus those who hate them often turn away together, while those who cherish them are few and powerless to help. It is like a handful of earth that cannot dam a bursting river, or a pint of water that cannot extinguish a fire on the plain.

Thus the thunder-shaking drum was silenced, while the hand drum was left to strike freely, raising a shrill, clamorous din. Fragrant orchids were cut down, yet foul fish and rank salted meat were worn and treasured; the pure, aromatic xuanchang—ceremonial wine brewed from black millet—was poured away and discarded, while people only ladled thin ale upon the Round Mound, the ancient altar where Heaven was sacrificed. Sweating-blood steeds from Ferghana were driven off, heads lowered in dejection; lame, inferior horses instead drew splendid imperial carriages at a gallop. For this reason the ancients clasped stones to their chests and threw themselves into the river, willing to be buried in the bellies of fish rather than endure coexistence with such an age. Enough—how truly lamentable.

Yet to cast xuanchang jade into mud is not because night-shining jade is insufficiently precious, but simply because no one recognizes it; to set the crimson-lu fine bow aside without stringing it is not because it lacks strength, but simply because no one appreciates it. Thus fine jade must wait until Bian He discovers it before it reveals a price equal to many cities; the “Bird Call” bow must meet Feng Men before it shows its power to pierce hard targets; the flying hare steed must wait until Zi Yu drives it before it can race like the wind; outstanding talent likewise must encounter a true patron before it can put its abilities to use.

If fine jade never leaves deep mountains and layered ridges, if a good bow never gets the chance to shoot through many layers of armor, if a fine horse never gets the chance to pull a lacquered carriage, if one burdened with the mission of the age never gets the chance to hold a prominent post—then who could know that they might shine with splendor, shoot down birds in the high sky, gallop in pursuit of the wind, govern the hundred officials, and accomplish manifold affairs of state? When they go unrecognized, they can only be mixed among tiles and stones, regarded as cheap as rotting wood, ranked beside the shafts of inferior horses, and classed with petty, mediocre people.

Alas! To hold a thornwood arrow yet expect the archery of Qu and Guang; to whip a weary, inferior horse yet hope to catch up with King Mu’s chariot; to put aside axe and adze yet wish to rival Ban and Mo in skill; to neglect worthy talent yet expect social order to be strict and all affairs to proceed in sequence—is this not exceedingly difficult?

Even when a person’s fame and real achievement are not seen in his own lifetime, his virtuous reputation can still be handed down to later ages. To comply with Heaven’s mandate and know one’s own situation—what is there to worry about? To rest in the times and follow change—what is there to resent?

End of Volume Twenty of the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi.

The Baopuzi says: People commonly think that someone whose courage and strength are unmatched can serve as a top general, and that someone widely learned and versed in order and disorder can fill a high office. Yet Zhang Fei and Guan Yu, though brave enough to face ten thousand foes, both met ends of decapitation and brought shame upon their lords. Kong Rong and Bian Rang surpassed ordinary men in literary talent, yet they did not understand how to govern; wherever they held office, things went wrong. Deng Yu and Ma Yuan were originally scholars from the fields, yet they excelled at military command; Xiao He and Cao Can had not studied the classics in depth, yet they were skilled at assisting in state affairs. From this one sees that recognizing talent is truly not easy.

If one waits until after trial to decide, one may still suffer the loss of a tripod leg snapping and the food inside spilling out. If one judges only by words and appearance, one may encounter what seems right but is not, with truth and falsehood mixed together. The world treats recognizing people as easy, as if hearing and seeing were enough to know them thoroughly. I am deeply doubtful of this and dare not lightly agree. To distinguish good from bad and infer inner character from outward form depends on the ability of the one who judges; it cannot be forced. Unless one is as intelligent as the sun and moon and as sharp of hearing as to perceive what has no sound, one should examine step by step and employ gradually—not hand over heavy responsibility all at once. To give important power to another rashly makes it hard to take back, and the harm can be great. One must not decide that because someone fails in one respect, he must fail in all; those who agree with you are not necessarily usable, and those who differ from you are not necessarily to be dismissed.

Some object: Heaven has the sun, moon, and stars as signs; on earth, the myriad things each have their forms. Thus by observing mountains and measuring waters one can infer height and depth; when wind rises and clouds shift, one can likewise infer fortune and misfortune. The wise, seeing trees that have not withered, know that fine jade lies in the mountains; seeing shore plants that do not dry up, perceive pearls in deep waters; when a comet appears, they know large freshwater fish will die; when sun and moon are eclipsed, they know qilin are contending. Mount Hua and Mount Huo need not be weighed to know they are beyond weighing; rivers need not be measured to know their volume is beyond measure. The wings of swans and the legs of fine horses, though not yet in full flight, are enough to foretell lightness and speed.

Some object: Heaven has the sun, moon, and stars as signs; on earth, the myriad things each have their forms. Thus by observing mountains and measuring waters one can infer height and depth; when wind rises and clouds shift, one can likewise infer fortune and misfortune. The wise, seeing trees that have not withered, know that fine jade lies in the mountains; seeing shore plants that do not dry up, perceive pearls in deep waters; when a comet appears, they know large freshwater fish will die; when sun and moon are eclipsed, they know qilin are contending. Mount Hua and Mount Huo need not be weighed to know they are beyond weighing; rivers need not be measured to know their volume is beyond measure. The wings of swans and the legs of fine horses, though not yet in full flight, are enough to foretell lightness and speed.

Haocao swords and the Xu family’s daggers were famously sharp weapons: even before anyone swung or thrust them, no one doubted they could sever something in a single stroke. The young of the bó—a beast said to be able to swallow an ox—already showed the bearing of one that could; fledgling ospreys already looked like birds that would dominate other raptors. When plants grow lush, the soil must be rich; when fish grow large, the water must be deep. A tiger’s tail will not grow on a civet cat, and an elephant’s tusk will not sprout from a rat’s mouth.

The grasping nature of Shuyu (Yangshe Bao, a grandee of Jin in the Spring and Autumn period) showed itself from the moment he was born; the omen that Shiwu (Shuyu’s son) would ruin the clan also appeared at his very birth. Shen Tong saw that Wuchen (a minister of Chu) would carry on an affair and take Xia Ji away; Zhang Fu saw that Chen Ping would rise to eminence. Fan Li retired to the lakes after his success because he saw that King Goujian of Yue had eyes like a wasp’s and a mouth like a bird’s beak—someone with whom one could not share hardship to the end. The people of Zhao gave up any thought of contending with Qin because they looked at Bai Qi’s sharp, pointed head and his fixed, unwavering gaze and judged that he was no ordinary man.

When King Wen of Zhou received Lü Shang (Jiang Taigong), the shadow under the mulberry tree had barely shifted before he knew the man was fit to be his teacher. After Liu Bei met Zhuge Liang, the sun’s position had not yet changed before he already treated him as his trusted inner counselor. Guo Tai (a celebrated scholar of the Eastern Han) was said to be only middling in talent himself, yet he was skilled at sizing people up: in Yingchuan he befriended Li Yuanli; in Chenliu he joined Fu Weiming; in Waihuang he drew close to Han Zizhu; in Puhang he took Qiu Jizhi as his teacher. While staying at a schoolhouse he took Wei Degong as a friend; seeing men at the plow he recommended Mao Jiwei; from among porters he spotted Meng Min’s unusual quality and warned that Yuan Ai was bound to fail. Later events matched his judgments without a single miss.

There are many angles from which to know a person: tell talent from high or low from face and bearing; tell whether temperament is easy or urgent from voice and breath; tell wisdom or folly from conduct; tell purity or corruption from attitude toward money and women; tell what someone will accept or reject from how they handle what is fitting; tell sincerity or pretense from whether words and deeds align; examine integrity from how one behaves when alone; and finally test constancy with long-standing trustworthiness and actual outcomes. To sift good from bad in this way—should that be difficult?

Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopu zi) replied: I do not mean that people are altogether unknowable. I hold that knowing people has its inner rationale, but that rationale has no fixed outward form.

Only those of the highest discernment can use such arts to see through to a person’s essential nature; ordinary people should not imagine they have mastered this. Yet people everywhere claim they can read others, which is why such remarks exist—to warn us to treat the business of knowing people with due caution.

Someone tall and imposing in build is not necessarily wise; someone thin and worn in appearance is not necessarily foolish. A person whose words are loud and forceful is not necessarily brave; one whose temperament is calm and restrained is not necessarily timid. Some look alike outwardly yet differ inwardly in purpose; others differ in temperament and character yet pursue the same ends. Knowing people is not like observing heaven and earth, sun and moon, mountains and rivers, which have fixed forms and regular patterns. Sometimes what is distant is easier to see clearly than what is close at hand. The eyes can gaze at the far reaches of the sky yet cannot make out what lies around one’s own neck and shoulders; the ears can hear thunder yet cannot hear ants or lice.

Physiognomists such as Tang, Lü, Fan, and Xu could judge only lifespan, poverty or wealth, noble or humble rank, and high or low office—they could not penetrate whether someone’s nature was generous or harsh, whether their conduct was lofty or base. Even rulers found knowing people difficult; how much more so ordinary people? You cite examples of judging by outward appearance to challenge what is said about inner character and disposition, without probing the root of the matter—you have likely missed the point.

The archer Wang She’s arrows could pierce the finest autumn down every time, yet he always missed the target’s center; he could not count as a true master of the bow. The mother of Shuxiang and the son of the Shen clan sometimes judged people correctly, but they could not do so consistently. Yao, after examining antiquity, still once chose the wrong man; the Duke of Zhou, clear-sighted and reverent, also once appointed someone unsuitable. Confucius could foresee a state’s rise and fall before events showed themselves, yet misjudged the character and appearance of Tantai Mieming right before his eyes. Ji Zha of Yanling could discern the good and evil of figures a thousand years away, yet overlooked extraordinary talent beside him. Knowing people is difficult to that degree. Could Guo Tai’s insight truly surpass these sages? It is only that those he judged correctly, once they rose to prominence, became easy for everyone to recognize; those he misjudged were never recorded.

What is truly valuable is to discover outstanding talent among the obscure and unknown, to recognize a thousand-li steed on a road as treacherous as Wuban, to find the pearl-bearing mussel in the depths of the nine abysses, and to discern the jade that holds inner radiance within the Jishi mountains.

Just as Cai Yong (Cai Boxi, the Eastern Han scholar) could tell a superb instrument from its ashes, and Ji Kang could hear in bamboo not yet made into a flute the clear tone it would one day give, what is truly precious is to discover outstanding people while they are still unknown—to judge the fine horse at Wupo, find the pearl-bearing clam in the deepest pool, and point to the treasure hidden in stone at Jishi Mountain.

Before a host of soldiers or a bustling crowd, one need only observe briefly to avoid being misled by appearances, to probe the plans hidden in a person’s heart, and to judge the quality of conduct from beginning to end. That is the distinctive, hard-to-transmit skill of knowing people.

If one waits until a person’s integrity has been fully tested as intact or corrupt, and only then weighs words and deeds as good or bad, it is like saying how heavy or light silk is only after the thread has been weighed, or how long or short cloth is only after it has been measured—anyone can do that. Why would one still need the wise?

End of Baopuzi (Outer Chapters), juan 21.

Baopuzi (Outer Chapters), juan 22, “Xingpin” (Types of Character)

Baopuzi said: In imitation of heaven and earth’s work of covering and bearing all things, make the bright manifest and also reveal what is hidden.

Baopuzi says: Those who can emulate heaven and earth in the breadth with which they cover and sustain all things, who spread clear principles to reveal what is hidden and subtle, whose literary refinement shines and whose reasoning is complete, and who see with clarity on their own and grasp the most subtle realms, are sages (shengren). Those whose inborn nature is lofty, bright, pure, and single-minded, whose aspirations are far-reaching and rise above the common world, whose minds are empty, still, and keen—seeming dull yet never repeating the same fault and not craving disrespectful indulgence—are worthy ones (xianren). Those who dwell at ease in stillness and in the realm of wuwei (non-action), who practice the upright Way and hold to fairness, are persons of the Way (daoren).

Those who serve their parents with all their heart, even to the point of facing life-and-death trials, and who cherish their own bodies in order to support their parents and establish a good name, are filial children (xiaoren). Those who feel compassion for every living being, who often put themselves in others’ place and treat things with generosity, are benevolent persons (renren). Those who rectify themselves and give their lives to the state, who endure hardship yet keep their integrity, are loyal persons (zhongren). Those who discern subtle principle in what is hard to notice, who foresee how fortune and misfortune lean on each other and that change is coming, are perspicacious persons (mingren). Those who weigh whether the times are ordered or chaotic in order to advance or withdraw, who carefully choose to stay or leave so as to preserve themselves, are wise persons (zhiren). Those who adapt whether circumstances are smooth or blocked, who always keep their hearts at peace and entrust themselves to fate without being dragged down, are accomplished persons (daren).

Those who will not sacrifice even a little integrity for a larger aim, who will not humiliate themselves merely to survive, are persons of refinement (yaren). Those who act by rule and measure, who in motion and rest are cautious, clear, and free of regret, are weighty persons (zhongren). Those whose character is as pure and plain as frost and ice, who do not stain their own integrity for power or profit, are pure persons (qingren). Those who in good fortune and bad always hold to duty and affection, who even in danger and ruin do not doubt loyalty or abandon others, are righteous persons (yiren). Those who long keep the promises they once made and do not change their resolve as the years wear on, are trustworthy persons (xinren).

Those skilled at using sharp, splendid language to establish their views, whose writings are vivid and flourishing yet pure and credible, are literary persons (wenren). Those who are spirited, bold, and resolute, who lead armies to still calamity and disorder, are martial persons (wuren). Those who probe the deep meaning of ancient classics and thoroughly understand the words of the ancients in order to exhaust principle, are Confucian scholars (ruren). Those who single-mindedly seek subtle principle and cherish every moment to increase their virtue, are persons of benefit (yiren).

Those who can see clearly the principle that the more one amasses, the more one loses, yet face salary and profit as if they mattered not at all, are people of integrity. Those who neither change their principles when they gain or lose nor waver in resolve when tempted by desire are steadfast people. Those who, when others are in urgent straits, are willing to sympathize and help, heedless of their own toil, and take sharing others’ burdens as their duty, are loyal and sincere people. Those who uphold a clean reputation to the end and do not yield or compromise to save themselves are people of moral backbone.

Clear-minded and outstanding in thought, concise and fluent in speech, able to explain tangled and difficult matters plainly—these are persuasive people. Those who, when often in low station, yield credit to others, and who grow all the more deferential even in secure and prosperous circumstances, are humble people. Those who value harmony among kin yet can uphold fairness and act according to reason are respectful and compliant people. Those who can decisively handle knotty affairs while holding to standards without favoritism are capable and efficient people. Those who can distinguish good from evil in complex situations, analyze doubts, and make apt judgments are people skilled in governance.

Those who observe the waxing and waning of sun, moon, and stars and investigate the patterns of rise and fall in things are people versed in numerology and cosmological arts. Those who face blades without regard for their lives and in mountains, forests, streams, and valleys fight rhinoceros-like beasts and tigers are brave people. Those who put in order a dignified bearing so the multitude stands in awe and act according to law and measure with no double standard are strict and upright people. Those who devise ingenious devices, enhance practical utility, and are equally masterful in music, arithmetic, and such arts are talented and skilled people. Those who face overbearing people without fear and do not shrink back even in peril are tough and stalwart people. Those who toil morning and evening without slackening and do not shirk labor even under toil, hardship, and steep adversity are diligent people. Those who remain calm and self-possessed when slandered and do not submit in fear before frightful things are strong and resolute people.

Those who do not rejoice on account of praise and do not change their usual bearing when they meet worry and hardship are cautious and steady people. Those who, knowing a thing can be done, surely do it and do not hesitate because the multitude doubts are decisive people. Those who in advance and retreat alike follow standards and do not rely on luck or speculation for profit are prudent people. Those who respectfully observe ritual and law, treat near and far alike with proper regard, and incur no reproach are good and upright people. Those who keep a plain way of life with few desires and do not alter their nature even when times change are simple and genuine people.

Those who hold fast to the way of plain simplicity, free of covetous desire, and do not alter their integrity even when the world changes, are called pu ren (plain, unadorned persons). Someone who entirely lacks such qualities and does not walk the path of goodness and uprightness is a person of low character.

A disciple asked: “You have already described how good people behave. What conduct do evil people display that can warn the world? Please set it down as well, to instruct everyone.”

Baopuzi said:

Those who fail to support and nurture the parents who gave them life, who injure the way of Dao and righteousness and bring harm upon themselves, are called bei ren (persons who go against what is right). Those who harbor crooked and hypocritical intent, steal honor by improper means, and care only for their own gain without regard for others’ life or death, are called ni ren (perverse persons). Those who abandon the path of benevolence and righteousness and, for their own safety, do not hesitate to frame others, are called xiong ren (injurious persons). Those who love contention and are never satisfied, who especially drive away the upright and harm the loyal and good, are called e ren (wicked persons).

Those who overstep proper bounds and hurt others by harsh measures, who inwardly delight in killing and treat cruelty as normal, are called nüe ren (cruel persons). Those who gradually mislead others with distorted doctrines and fabricate slander to entangle the loyal and straight, are called chan ren (slanderous persons). Those whose words are clever but whose deeds contradict their speech, whose real conduct is foul yet who pretend to be pure, are called ning ren (deceitful flatterers). Those who do not investigate right and wrong but only seek to win, who fly into rage at the slightest provocation, are called bao ren (violent persons).

Those who perform small acts of kindness on the surface to win trust, while secretly harboring intent to harm and remaining close to no one, are called jian ren (treacherous persons). Those who trim their behavior to the wind and hints of superiors to secure a place, who probe the master’s mind and defend wrong actions, are called chan ren (sycophantic persons). Those whose speech pays no heed to consistency from one moment to the next, who promise lightly yet never act, are called xu ren (hollow, insincere persons).

Those who cast aside Dao and shame when profit appears, who drop integrity and seek only gain, are called tan ren (greedy persons). Those whose hearts sway at the sight of beauty and who indulge in ornate display until evil thoughts arise, are called yin ren (lustful persons). Those who remain doubtful about what has already happened, who often choose wrongly when they act and frequently regret afterward, are called an ren (obtuse persons).

Those who reject ancient teaching and the classics, who trust only themselves and refuse to learn from those who surpass them, are called sun ren (persons who diminish others and the good). Those who know they ought to do good yet cannot, who do much yet achieve nothing, are called lie ren (inferior persons). Those who abandon the cultivation of virtue and cling to power to please others, are called bi ren (decadent persons). Those who take crooked shortcuts and chase luck, who use bribes to scramble for rank and opportunity, are called xie ren (depraved persons).

Those who are arrogant, fierce, and disrespectful of ritual, who like to bully those better than themselves, are called han ren (overbearing persons). Those who, when wronged and oppressed, instead accuse themselves, and who panic at difficulties where none truly exist, are called qie ren (cowardly persons).

To speak of secret matters in a crowded place, or to say everything without considering who is listening, is the mark of a shallow person. To be unclear about what helps or harms, to long inwardly for something yet never reach it, is the mark of a dull and stubborn person. To incriminate oneself when wronged or suppressed, and to panic when the matter is not even serious, is the mark of a timid person. To know something is wrong yet refuse to change, and to go further astray when hearing good counsel, is the mark of a confused person.

To lack the benevolence to help others and to break easily with friends and kin is the mark of a harsh person. To hate others more than oneself and to rejoice when they meet disaster is the mark of a jealous person. To hoard wealth and grain, to slight moral duty, and to refuse help when others are in distress is the mark of a stingy person. To take great risks on a gamble and, after failure, still not repent, is the mark of a foolish person. To be narrow-minded and partial, and to act only for profit, is the mark of a petty person.

To hunt in the open country with hawks and hounds, and to be lost in gambling and games without restraint, is the mark of one whose mind is bewitched. To forget distinctions of rank and station and to crave only fine and luxurious trifles is the mark of an extravagant person. To sink into sensual pleasure and feasting and to neglect the customary visits of congratulation and condolence is the mark of an absurd person. To have no heart for cultivating character and to be slack in managing the household is the mark of a lazy person. To lack restraint and a settled bearing and to act lightly without reflection is the mark of a frivolous person.

To meet righteousness as if drunk and not understand it, and to be stirred at the mention of profit, is the mark of a base person. To be short in talent and often in error, and unable to tell what to take or leave or what is good or bad, is the mark of a dull person. To detest the worthy and fail to respect them, and to hear excellent words as if deaf, is the mark of an obstinate person. To be unable to tell red from purple even when someone points it out face to face, is the mark of one who is blinded. To act against moral principle in restless haste and to break ritual and law without heed is the mark of one who violates order. To behave in ways that invite ridicule and to speak what does not cohere with reason is the mark of an awkward person.

To serve powerful magnates like servants and, when they decline and lose standing, to cast off past kindness, is the mark of an ingrate.

People who scorn old friends from their days of poverty and low standing, who look down on others and are proud and overbearing, are arrogant people. Those who cast aside a partner who has aged and faded yet still crave more sensual pleasure, or who roam far without pursuing office or study, are dissolute people. Those who lack loyalty and honest integrity and abandon those who raised and favored them to chase gain are traitorous people. Those who are warm and compliant in person but slander the other behind their back once they part are hypocritical people. Those who habitually domineer and insist on their own way, reject advice, and refuse to listen are harsh and unkind people.

Baopuzi said: A person’s talent is not easy to see, and truth and falsehood sometimes look very much alike.

Some scholars have handsome features, refined bearing, and conduct that pleases the eye; their dignity is like dragon or tiger, and their movements in advancing and retreating follow the rules. Yet their mind is blocked and their spirit dim; they have no usable ability and are empty within, relying only on outward adornment. Their mouths produce not a single fresh thought, and their pens not half a line of writing. In office they cannot govern the people; on campaign they cannot command troops. In handling affairs they ruin what they touch; on mission they disgrace their charge. Whether active or still, nothing fits; in going, staying, advancing, or retreating, nothing is timely. This is the first kind that is hard to discern.

Some scholars look plain and worn, short and rough in appearance, weak in voice and breath, slow and awkward in bearing. Yet within they hold talent and treasure in the breast; their classical learning is thorough and their conduct lofty; their ability surpasses that of Yuan and Kai (legendary ministers), and their literary flourish is like a springtime grove. In office they can set all kinds of public business in order; leading troops they can preserve themselves and win alone. This is the second kind that is hard to discern.

Some scholars have far-reaching plans, subtle and clever stratagems, comprehensive intelligence, and reflection that penetrates the hidden. They are multi-talented and capable, and can meet every weighty task; yet what they think in the heart cannot be conveyed in speech, and what they mean cannot be fully written. Met in haste, they seem no different from ordinary people. This is the third kind that is hard to discern.

Some scholars are quick and sharp in debate, clear and cutting in speech, clever and ornate in expression. They are skilled at citing cases and drawing analogies; their talk pours like a deep spring, their force like a rushing wind.

Some people can only talk but cannot act; they are familiar with antiquity yet poor at handling present affairs. Put them in charge of government, and administration falls into disorder; put them in charge of the people, and the people resent them. This is the fourth kind of person who is hard to discern.

Some appear respectful outwardly, humble in bearing, devout in expression, and cautious in speech; inwardly they are slack, arrogant, and dissolute. When given an appointment they show no concern; in office they are not careful. This is the fifth kind of person who is hard to discern.

Some excel at archery and hit the mark as soon as they draw the bow; they dare charge into the enemy line empty-handed, can ride sitting backward or standing, and are skilled with all five weapons. Yet their bodies are frail and their thinking shallow; when they act they panic and their hearts quail. In drill they seem matchless, but in real use they achieve nothing—at sight of the enemy they flee, at news of hostile troops they lose their wits. This is the sixth kind of person who is hard to discern.

Some are upright and plain by nature, speak little, and look unassuming; they do not cling to trivialities or show off momentary bravery, are usually cautious and restrained, do not fuss when offended, and shrink in manner so they often seem weak and honest. Yet inwardly they are firm and straight, unafraid of power and violence; where principle requires it, they face death as going home, and even if torn limb from limb they will not change their integrity. This is the seventh kind of person who is hard to discern.

Some are filial and brotherly, gentle and kind, modest and even-tempered, trustworthy and orderly, and do nothing against ritual and law; in hardship they still keep their place, hold to their resolve, and their conduct stays as pure as frost and ice. Yet they are slow in affairs, miss what matters, cannot seize the moment when opportunity comes, and often finish nothing; they lack capacity to bear responsibility and cannot carry out what they are given. This is the eighth kind of person who is hard to discern.

Some act with lofty simplicity, carry a stern, solitary air, shout and swagger, look down on peers, and despise the vulgar world; they refuse to restrain themselves and ignore small faults, follow impulse as if no one else existed. They also form factions and shut others out, so those who speak of them are implicated, friends avoid them, and when judging character they are often left out. Yet in court their bearing is correct; once they know their duty they spare no effort; loyal in serving superiors, capable in managing subordinates. This is the ninth kind of person who is hard to discern.

Some men of letters are broad-minded and open to diverse views; they tolerate others’ shortcomings and treat people with gentle modesty and personal integrity. They toil without boasting, defer in their dealings, help others in times of danger, and are trustworthy enough that one could entrust them with one’s life or with orphaned children. Yet they may be too good-natured and poor at weighing and deciding: they have a humane heart but cannot make up their minds, delay rewarding what deserves reward, and shrink from punishing what deserves punishment. They are loyal in spirit but weak in practical capacity, hesitate when handling affairs, and may even set aside the law, follow what is wrong, and blur the line between right and wrong—until failure follows. This is one of the cases that are hard to tell apart.

Things often look alike while their nature is utterly different: they seem to be one thing when they are not. To judge so that no doubt remains is difficult even for a sage, still more for ordinary people. Choosing talent and forming close friendships therefore require careful selection and thorough investigation.

Some people’s temperament and conduct change: upright at first, they turn toward evil later. Wang Mang was once thought to surpass Yi Yin and Huo Guang; in his last years he was more cruel than Zhao Gao. Such a transformation is not something people of ordinary discernment can see coming.

If the good and bad in human beings were as easy to separate as the jiaoliao (a tiny bird) from the swan, or the fox and hare from the dragon’s scales, then Yao’s court would not have employed the Four Evils; Guan Shu and Cai Shu would not have nearly endangered the Zhou house; Confucius would not have misjudged Dantai Mieming; Yanling Jizi would not have been left with the regret of gold offered but not accepted; Yi Yin would not have had to admonish Tang seventy times; and Xiang Yu would not have lived to regret doubting Fan Zeng.

Alas, the difficulty of knowing people lies in this: boque (stone that looks like jade) is confused with jinyu (true fine jade); the jiaoming (a legendary mote-sized creature) is taken for the phoenix; frozen ice is mistaken for crystal; and clouds formed by smoke are taken for real clouds. Cases in which one does not misjudge another are therefore few. If even emperors find knowing people hard, how much more so for everyone else?