《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 3

Slander and praise can confuse people’s judgment of fine jade; a creature as tiny as the jiaomiao can look like a phoenix; frozen ice can be mistaken for crystal; smoke and dust can be taken for clouds and mist—so those who never misjudge are few. Even emperors find it hard to distinguish talent; how much more ordinary people?

Only those of broad insight can penetrate what is hidden and subtle, weigh things like a divine balance, and think through what is obscure and hard to see; they recognize unworked jade at sight of a mountain and spot pearls when they come to a river. Faced with talent that is hard to tell apart, they can choose and reject without regret, so good and bad are clear and praise and blame fit. King Wu Ding of Shang and King Wen of Zhou did not rule the realm alone; Fu Yue and Lü Shang were not buried in obscurity forever. Gao, Mang, and Bo Pi could not carry out their evil; Hong Gong and Shi Xian had no room for their deceit. These are only the broad principles and usual methods of selecting people. To pursue what is finest in this, the key lies in whoever selects talent—that is not something writing can spell out in full.

End of Baopuzi Waipian, juan 22.

Baopuzi Waipian, juan 23: “Quelling Litigation” (Mì Sòng).

As for what Master Liu sought, it depends on the person in charge; it was never something a brush could set out in every thread.

Mr. Liu Shiyou spoke on the Way: The basic relationships that sustain human order begin with husband and wife. When man and woman unite, it symbolizes the pairing of yin and yang qi of Heaven and Earth. For this reason, people in antiquity attached great weight to the wedding ceremony, for marriage joins two families in friendship and carries forward the ancestral line and household. The bridegroom’s family welcomed the bride at the gate and heard the wedding arrangements in the ancestral temple; dark and light-red ceremonial garments and gifts were prepared, and relatives went in person to receive her and offer the handrail. If the groom’s side was in the three-year mourning for parents, the decision about the marriage had to be reported to the bride’s family. Once the bride’s family agreed, they could not change their minds on their own. When the major mourning ended, the bride’s family would again ask the groom’s side; only if the groom’s side declined would the bride be married elsewhere. These rites were meant to honor respect, ritual, and the spirit of yielding. How could there be any sense in going to court first and marrying afterward?

Yet when the age declined and custom rotted, people looked down on ritual and harmed teaching and corrupted manners: some broke faith, promised marriage but refused to fulfill it, and both sides quarreled and sued until the situation became unbearable, and the magistrates were burdened by such cases. It is now possible to stipulate: of the two parties disputing a marriage, as long as they have not yet performed the “tonglao” rite (the ceremony in which the new couple eat sacrificial meat together, marking the completion of the wedding), either may dissolve the engagement; the party in breach should return twice the wine gift and betrothal gifts. If there have already been two prior dissolutions, compensation for betrothal gifts should be doubled; if the engagement is broken a third time, twice the betrothal compensation is owed. Thus those who break engagements will not rush to sue, and the greedy and stingy will not profit from receiving betrothal gifts again and again. This is an important method of governing the state and a rule that ought to be followed for a long time.

Baopuzi replied: Mr. Liu grieves that the virtue of courtesy and yielding daily declines, and resents that the people’s lawsuits harm custom and moral teaching. He fears that if litigation spreads, marriage and family will be hard to keep harmonious and people will gradually sink into strife. He offers upright counsel, fills what the world overlooks, and devises good policy to rescue conduct that has strayed from the Way. If put into practice, the noisy, quarrelsome habit might change on that account, and the shameless temper might shift likewise. His consideration of what is true and false in human affairs is thorough; indeed it would be hard to pick further faults. This truly is a long-term method of governing the state and an incisive discourse of great benefit.

However, I, Ge Hong, know my own shallow talent and have not grasped the deepest principle; after hearing it in haste, doubts still remain in my mind.

Marriage between a man and a woman was originally a major affair of joining two families; neither side should be subjected to coercion. The man’s family chose a partner they found suitable, and the woman’s family should agree only when they too considered the match fitting. If a marriage was promised rashly and then withdrawn, responsibility lay with the woman’s side. If one party arbitrarily broke the agreement, betrayed good faith, and seized a betrothal at will according to private inclination, then even if precautions were tightened and harsh rules were laid down, such conduct might still not be stamped out.

If this practice were simply tolerated, and the only remedy were to require the party who “stole” the engagement to pay a larger bride-price, the poor would be intimidated by it, while the wealthy could use it precisely to get what they wanted. The family that secured the match later might scrape together wealth to make up the bride-price and gladly accept; the family that had been promised first could only keep silent and could not speak out in protest. Judged by ordinary human feelings, how could they not resent and lament? Those who refused to submit often treated death as lightly as returning home. In that way, bloodshed and calamity could arise from such disputes.

To cherish only the name of a petty lawsuit, yet produce deep hatred that people cannot bear, is like finding ritual inspection too troublesome while forgetting the agony of lives cut short. It is like buying goods in a market: when someone raises the price and snatches what another has already chosen, the buyer seldom fails to feel anger; how much less could one endure seeing one’s wife taken away before one’s eyes?

Once such a custom took hold, even those already betrothed—who had received bride-price and gone through betrothal rites—would still worry that the engagement might be wrested away. Master Liu held that taking tonglao (the wedding rite in which the new couple share sacrificial meat) as the boundary at which marriage is fixed was reasonable in itself; but if, on that account, a woman could rely on the betrothal being repeatedly “snatched away” even after accepting bride-price for many years, she would inevitably grow careless in choosing a husband. If she found the man the least bit unsatisfactory, she could go back on her word and marry elsewhere. For breeding enmity and inviting disaster, nothing could be worse.

When the ancients established institutions, they weighed a matter from start to finish, guarded against trouble before it arose, and thought with great thoroughness. They did not indulge arbitrary seizure of engagements; they used what the text calls the “baoban system” to restrain it—very likely by deliberate design. If a woman were endowed with peerless beauty, the kind said to overturn a kingdom…

When they encounter wealthy and powerful scions of great houses, such men love beautiful women and feel no restraint from ritual propriety. Their family assets run to thousands in gold, and they spend without stint. Even if the betrothal gifts had to be ten times the usual amount, they would not care—how much less when the difference is only a little? Hua Shi killed Kong Fu in order to seize Kong’s wife; a man of Chu went to fetch a bride for his son but, because of her beauty, kept her for himself. Judging from this, how could they begrudge exhausting their estates to pay back on the woman’s side the gifts already received under the earlier engagement?

Frivolous men often turn small grievances into lasting hatred. They like to cling to the rising and abandon the falling, cold-shouldering the weak and fawning on the powerful. If this policy were put into practice, there would inevitably be many cases of taking women from poor and humble households and giving them to rich and noble ones. Your Majesty has not said by what means such abuses are to be prevented.

Some say: however much the bride’s side receives in betrothal gifts, it should be recorded in a register that same day; those present should also sign a second register, at least ten persons, so that if someone later travels far away or dies, proof may still exist. The woman’s father, brothers, or uncles who reply to the groom’s side must also write a letter in their own hand. If they later break faith and marry her elsewhere, and the evidence is clear, the woman’s father, mother, and brothers should be punished. In this way lawsuits might be reduced.

End of juan 23 of the Baopuzi (Outer Chapters).

The Baopuzi (Outer Chapters), juan 24: “Admonition on Wine”

Master Baopu said: What the eyes love to look at must not be followed wherever it leads; what the ears love to hear must not be indulged without limit; what the nose loves to smell must not be given free rein; what the mouth loves in the way of taste…

Baopuzi says: What the eyes find pleasing must not be indulged at will; sounds the ears love must not be followed blindly; fragrances the nose enjoys must not be pursued without restraint; flavors the mouth craves must not be sought according to whim; what the heart desires must not be satisfied arbitrarily.

What can bewitch the eyes is usually fine looks and bright adornment; what can bewitch the ears is pleasing, unrestrained music; what can bewitch the nose is rich, heavy fragrance; what can bewitch the mouth is rare, delicious food; what can bewitch the spirit is power, profit, and fame. When all five kinds of desire lead one astray, the disasters that follow may harm the person himself—is this not truly so?

Therefore the wise strictly discipline their temperament so that it accords with reason; they do not let the mind chase external things, but restrain themselves with calm and contentment, and think in terms of long-term consequences and broad understanding. They suppress sensual impulses as carefully as building a dike against a breach; they govern their nature more cautiously than driving a horse with rotting reins. In this way they preserve themselves, prolong life, and avoid external calamity and entanglement.

Hunger and cold are hard to bear, yet those who keep pure integrity will not accept ill-gotten gain; poverty and low station are painful, yet people of noble character will not cling to wealth and honor while living in danger and disorder. Because they weigh gain and loss and see the long-term good, forbearance can preserve them; when the way of righteousness prevails, they give up what harms body and mind.

Wine is a sweet-tasting drink, yet also a poison that brings illness: it offers no real benefit, while the harm it can do is very great. When gentlemen drink, they ruin their virtue; when petty men drink, they easily invite guilt. Those lost in wine rarely wake up in time and often do not change until disaster is upon them. Men of learning in the world also know these truths, yet they can neither quit wine nor hold back. They indulge the belly’s momentary craving and lightly invite trouble—like drinking cold water when burning with thirst: it feels good at once, but the body may be harmed by it.

Great and small disorder and ruin—hardly any is wholly unrelated to wine; yet people in the world still drink themselves drunk. At the start of a feast they often sit upright, look orderly, speak with care, recite from “Zhan Lu” lines of peaceful harmony, sing from “Zai Hao” of shared joy, raise cups to wish long life, and read passages praising gentle self-restraint.

Before even an hour had passed, people felt their bodies grow light and their ears flush with heat. Wine vessels of every kind—glazed cups, conch shells, and more—were brought out together, and the rules for penalties grew ever stricter. Still they would not stop drinking. Some pulled axle pins from their carts and threw them down wells; mouths and noses ran with spillage, hair was soaked with wine, and their bearing lost all restraint.

Some staggered about in dance, leaving their seats to wander here and there; others shouted and clamored until the scene churned like water at a boil. Some quarreled to show dominance, some laughed alone, some talked to themselves though no one listened, some vomited before the mats; some sought out song-girls, some lost their caps and let their belts hang loose.

Men who were usually dignified now glanced about as restlessly as Hua Du, the powerful minister of Song; the timid imitated the darting rush of Qing Ji, the legendary swift runner; the normally steady rolled like tumbleweed in surging waves; the habitually composed leaped like deer or fish out of water. Those who ordinarily chose their words with care now clapped and joined in chorus; those who yielded and avoided conflict now held forth at length. The bearing of modesty and shame was broken; wild disorder took hold; base and vulgar nature showed through, and arrogant, perverse manners came to the surface. The spirit grew murky, the mind confused, until right and wrong were turned upside down.

Some drove horses at a gallop, plunging toward deep pits without fear, treating Jiuzheban—the slope of nine bends, steep and treacherous—as level as an anthill. Some climbed perilous heights and crossed crumbling ground, falling without noticing, taking the abyss of Lüliang, that deep and dangerous water, for no more than a shallow ox track. Some vented anger on objects; some, drunk, beat wives and children or abused servants; some wounded livestock with sharp blades, some set fires indoors, some cast precious things into deep water. Others turned their rage on those seated nearby, violently harming scholar-friends.

Some were killed for insulting honored hosts; others suffered at the hands of fierce men they had provoked. Drunken speech might seem polished in diction, yet it was tedious and devoid of sense; repeated bowing wasted effort and was no true reverence. Subordinates were disrespectful before lords and parents; juniors were insolent at elders’ gatherings; upright counsel was taken for abuse, and earnest advice for personal offense. Then some drew blades without thought of consequence, or swung clubs without heed to front or back, forging blood feuds and inviting the penalty of death.

Thus, when people draw knives they no longer heed the perilous consequences; when they swing clubs they no longer watch front and back. Through fighting they forge blood feuds and bring upon themselves the disaster of execution. When the young bully their elders, the community will sternly rebuke them; when one insults another’s father or elder brother, that person’s sons and younger kin may draw blades in turn; when one exposes what another holds taboo, even the hardiest of men find it hard to bear; when scheming and harshness reach an extreme, even the clear-minded and rational cannot forgive. In an instant many calamities gather, and deep afflictions pile up until they cannot be remedied. No swift horse can outrun regret for what is past; when one wishes to reform, there is no longer a path back. These are things the wise guard against with all their strength, yet even those of gentle temperament cannot wholly avoid them. The ruin arising from this is beyond counting.

Yet when people gather to drink, no one will put down the cup. As others raise their glasses in invitation, cup after cup is thrust before one’s face, regardless of whether one can bear it. Someone who pours only a little leftover wine is taken to be deliberately stalling and slighting the host; someone who fills the cup to the brim for a person they respect, pressing them warmly to drink, instead puts that person in an awkward position. Those who urge others to drink show no restraint and will not stop pressing; from this, resentful looks and harsh words arise.

When wind evil invades the viscera, it dims the spirit; when the illness is severe, people injure themselves and live in fear. Everyone who suffers such sickness grieves and fears, endures pain, and longs for recovery. Intoxication harms body and mind—how is it different from this disease? Yet people hide in sheltered corners to avoid wind while refusing to bridle emotion and limit wine. If they truly feared wind and loathed illness, they would cut off indulgence and excess and break the habit of clinging to the cup.

Wind sickness can still be treated by some means; the transformations wrought by wine occur in an instant. After drinking, the mind loses its order and one drifts in confusion: Mount Tai looks like a pellet, the vast sea like a small dish; looking up and shouting, as if heaven were falling; bowing one’s head and crying out, as if the earth were collapsing; lying in wait for tigers and wolves, or throwing oneself into a well or into fire, without feeling fear. When one has brought the body to such a state, how can one still care for propriety and restraint, or govern surging joy and anger?

In former times, Yu of Xia kept at a distance Yidi, who was skilled at brewing wine, and the Xia flourished; King Zhou of Shang built a tower of wine lees and dug pools to hold wine, and in the end lost the realm. Feng Hou was condemned for wearing a wine vessel on his head and holding a cup in his mouth; Liu Biao, styled Jingsheng, ruined his health through deep indulgence in wine and favored the “Three Elegances” wine cups; Liu Song’s intestines rotted from drinking summer-quenching wine.

Guo Zhen went mad from heavy drinking and scarcely passed a day without being drunk. Lord Xinling died young because of his violent temper; Zhao Xiangzi lost sound governance through disorder in state affairs; Zhao Wu lost the people’s support; Zifan was put to death; Emperor Hui of Han shortened his own life; Guan Fu’s entire clan was wiped out; Chen Zun met a violent end; Ji Bu was cast out and shunned; Cao Zhi (style name Zijian) withdrew into seclusion; Xu Miao was barred from discussing state affairs on account of wine—all calamities born of drowning in drink. Many in the world love wine and take joy in it, but few know how to hold back and live in awe. Lovers of wine are many; those who warn are few—what can even the best admonition accomplish? I only wish that gentlemen would keep their drinking within bounds.

In former times, when harvests failed and grain was dear, drunken men would kill one another. Local magistrates thereupon banned wine, proclaiming the prohibition again and again; officials searched everywhere, making arrests and posting notices, punishing with severity; inspectors even shamed one another, and more than half of those flogged died from it. The harsher the ban, the more people broke it—some dug cellars to brew in secret and hid wine in oil skins to carry on their persons. The common people’s attachment to wine, one may say, runs very deep. I am only a man of low station and can set these words down in writing; beyond that I can do nothing.

Moreover, though those who rule the people enact prohibition, they themselves do not quit wine—they are strict with others and easy on themselves—so of course their orders go unheeded. The Book of Documents says, “If you do not do it yourself, the people will not believe.” Teach thus, and how will transformation spread? Ban thus, and how can the prohibition truly take hold?

Wine sellers who stop trading fall into distress; they dress up gifts and offer bribes and cling to the powerful, and the officials they answer to dare not investigate. The powerless must stop selling; the powerful can corner the wine market. Some monopolize for profit, even doubling the price, and sell openly without fear. The penalty for breaking the ban is light, the profit from selling wine is heavy—how can such conduct be stamped out?

Someone objected: “Because of wine, Xia Jie and Yin Zhou perished; Lord Xinling and Emperor Hui of Han were harmed by indulgence in sensual pleasures—and harm from sinking into pleasure is not limited to drinking alone. Because people in antiquity suffered disaster on account of this, you conclude that people today should forbid it entirely. It is like saying that because Bao Si brought down the Zhou, the ruler should abolish the six palaces; or because the Epang Palace ruined Qin, the king should live in a thatched hut.

“It is said that Yao and Shun could drink a thousand cups or more at a sitting; Confucius set no fixed limit on how much he drank; the Duke of Zhou, Ji Dan, never let dishes run out at his banquets, and so he was able to establish rites and music. Liu Bang, the Founding Emperor of Han, often got drunk and danced, and thereby rose to cut the serpent and raise his army. Yu Gong drank a full hu of wine and judged cases with even greater clarity; Guan Lu downed three dou in one go and still spoke clearly and argued brilliantly. Yang Xiong never left his cup and yet completed the Taixuan. Ziyu was so drunk he remembered nothing, yet his achievement of hegemony was thereby accomplished. Pour out one jar of wine and the army rejoices; pass around antidote wine and even horse thieves are moved to reform. Dispelling sorrow, completing ritual propriety, celebrating merit, sacrificial drinking, and linking spirits with human hearts—all depend on wine. Welcoming elders at home and entertaining guests abroad with abundant wine is what the Spring and Autumn Annals praises. Seen in this light, how can one lightly assert that wine is harmful?”

Baopuzi replied: “Heaven indeed has the Wine Banner among its constellations—just as sun and moon are the most prominent among celestial signs, and water and fire are both roots of the myriad things. Used in due measure, water and fire can nourish life and accomplish tasks; used wrongly, they can bury one in fire or drown one in water. Can one say they do no harm merely because water and fire hang high in heaven and serve great purposes? Wine is the same: it truly can bring benefit, but it can also bring disaster.

“Food and drink are essential to sustaining life, yet eating too much indeed leads to illnesses such as abdominal masses—how much more so when wine is a drink with poisonous qualities?”

The reason Xia Jie, King Zhou of Shang, Lord Xinling, and Emperor Hui of Han became addicted to the sounds and sights that ruin a state, indulged in fine wine and beautiful women, was that wine corrupted their dispositions and drunkenness fed their tendency to let go—until desire lost all measure and they forgot the principles of cultivating body and mind. I am speaking of the root of disaster; you see only its branches. If you say this harm is not caused by wine, then where does harm come from? It is like knowing only that a downpour soaks your clothes but not how clouds and vapor form; worrying that flying dust blinds the eyes but not noticing it is whipped up by fierce wind.

The talk of capacities like “a thousand goblets and a hundred cups,” and the claim that after drinking one may do anything at all, goes against common sense—people of discernment will not believe it. What sets sages apart is wisdom; as for the body, they are not vastly taller than ordinary people, and they are certainly not seven chi or three zhang in height, nor ten thousand times an ordinary person’s bulk. How could the wine drunk in a single day turn someone into that?

Confucius feared that wine would alter one’s nature and did not dare drink to the point of losing composure. The Duke of Zhou performed rites many times in a single day, ate and drank simply, and took wine only in clear, moderate measure. Even sages were this careful—how much more should ordinary people regret losing control when drunk?

Emperor Gaozu of Han followed Heaven’s mandate and achieved the imperial enterprise; even without getting drunk, he would still have risen to cut the serpent. Yu Gong was intelligent and penetrating, skilled at hearing cases—he could judge great and small matters according to reason, never wrong the innocent, so punishments were not abused and the people had no grievances. However large his capacity for wine, it would not for that reason delay state affairs; had he truly drunk to great drunkenness, he would likewise have lost awareness. The ability to decide doubtful cases—why should it depend on wine? One never hears that Gao Yao, Boyi, Zichan, or Zhang Shishi tried cases while drunk. Guan Lu was young and usually had little chance to speak freely, so he used wine to bolster his courage—but if he drank past his limit, he would surely become muddled and confused.

At this level, even inferring the movements of spirits and ghosts from slight changes in hexagram lines, judging rise and fall from a person’s complexion, foretelling what is about to happen from birds’ cries, reading fortune and misfortune from clouds and wind, or discerning blessing and calamity from tomb steles and cypress trees—none of this requires one to be drunk before one can judge.

Yang Xiong (Yang Ziyun) was a man of comprehensive learning and wide knowledge, with outstanding talent, far-reaching insight, and richly varied writing—all of this was inborn. Why would he need external things to help him compose? That he often drank may have been nothing more than a personal preference, or perhaps he had some illness and used wine to help the medicine work.

Master Ziyu’s purpose was already fixed; even without getting drunk, things would still have been carried through in the end. “A bottle of liquor to please the crowd” is only a figure in an allegory. When rewards and punishments are fair and kindness and severity are properly balanced, when plans are thorough and one adapts flexibly to circumstances, officers become steadfast and brave and the people are willing to risk their lives. If one cannot do this, even if wine were as deep as an abyss, what difference could it make to victory or defeat?

Duke Mu treated horse-thieves to wine as an expedient in a sudden crisis; that he set aside law and indulged wrongdoing—what is there to commend? How could that compare with cautious conduct?

—End of Outer Chapters of Baopuzi, Book 24—

Book 25: Jí Miù (Critique of Contemporary Errors and Absurdities)

Ge Hong said: Affairs in the world change one after another, and ritual teaching gradually decays. People no longer honor modest yielding; arrogance instead becomes the prevailing fashion. When peers gather to drink, some squat and some sit cross-legged. In the height of summer they bare their heads and expose their torsos. What they are most keen on is nothing but choupu gambling and tanqi (a flicking-stones board game); what they talk about is nothing beyond sensual pleasure—they open their mouths only about splendid dress and wealthy young men, and when they go out to associate they always chase after the powerful and those sunk in feasting. They never hear talk of pure discourse on the Way; they devote themselves solely to mocking one another in coarse language.

They take this manner as refined and unconventional, and ridicule those who do not act thus as foolish and vulgar. Then mediocre people who chase fashion and shallow scholars who pander to the times admire this trend like night-flying insects darting toward a bright lamp; those who learn and imitate it drift off like light feathers carried by the wind.

Such jesting talk sometimes insults ancestors and elders, sometimes involves women. The one who starts the taunt often does not push words to the extreme, but the one who answers back fears his retort is not harsh enough. Those who pick the fight do not consider what trouble a sharp reply may bring; those who join in take it as shameful if their words are not cutting. Zhou’s grain was cut down and Wen’s wheat was reaped—all because vindictive hatred could not be stilled. This means that quarrels of the tongue can lead to reprisals such as ruining another’s crops. Those skilled at sharp tongues attach themselves to the strong and form factions; the glib use keen words to attack others. People treat not answering as stupidity and holding back first as defeat. How then can words that breed resentment ever be quieted?

When a person of talent jokes, he is good at taking what is before him, matching a fitting pattern, and citing antiquity to illuminate the present—his words are implicit and his meaning clear; he are both elegant and amusing, hit the truth of the matter without hurting anyone, and neither offend taboos nor touch what others cherish. As for the clumsy jester, he twists facts and calls straight crooked, so that listeners are shocked. The difference between the fine and the crude ought to be distinguished clearly; crude mockery not only does no good—it can do harm.

Some people lose all restraint as soon as they drink. When they meet someone tough and unwilling to yield, they cannot bear it—they fling their sleeves, ready to fight, and may even come to blows. Some use ugly words against people they ought to respect and leave the other person stunned. Whether words are pleasant or harsh, if they are used at the wrong moment they should be avoided; that is not merely unhelpful—it can invite disaster.

Some drunkards, faced with someone formidable they should not provoke, cannot hold back—they swing their fists, even insult their elders and betters, turning a friendly bond into enmity, ending in broken ties, harm to body, grudges, and trouble. Some have hurled wine cups and wine flasks at each other; others expose others’ secrets or rebuke them to their face. The killing of Duke Ling of Chen and the destruction of the Guan clan were not calamities that fell from the sky—they were tied to words that brought ruin. Once speech leaves the mouth, it can decide honor or disgrace. The ancients warned people to be careful with words—were those warnings deceitful?

However loud the thunder rolls, it cannot take back words already spoken in error; however skilled Lu Ban was, he could not polish away the stain left by a slip of the tongue. Even if one cannot weigh every word three times before speaking, one can at least stop jesting and frivolous talk so that trouble does not take root. Speak with dignity and behave with respect, so that words do not go wrong and bearing does not look arrogant—worthy of imitation, deserving of esteem, and inviting closeness. That is an important way to stay clear of humiliation and keep friendships intact.

Moreover, those who slight others do not cherish the parents who gave them life; those who fight rashly do not value the body their parents gave them. Such conduct violates filial duty—how can one fail to think it through carefully?

Yet those who err through folly often cannot see their own faults; those who act on impulse resent hearing unwelcome advice. They dislike honest criticism and have no one nearby to speak plainly to them—as if they lacked the sharp remedy of needle and stone. Flatterers fawn and smile, praising them for doing well; those who agree to their face also clap and boast of their merit. That only keeps the confused from noticing their mistakes. They imagine themselves as sharp and eloquent as Yan Ying or Zigong (Duanmu Ci), without understanding that this is really a sign of coming disaster and a warrant for harm—something that pushes a person toward danger.

How could this merely harm the fine reputation one leaves in the historical record, or diminish the good name passed down after one's death? Even if husband and wife remain together into old age with careful self-restraint, they cannot undo a moment's lapse; even with the wealth of Tao Zhugong (Fan Li, famed in the Spring and Autumn period for his skill in commerce and amassing riches), one cannot buy back an ill-chosen word.

Thus the slightest error may skew things a thousand li off course; hurtful words bring pain like a blade or spear thrust. Small things piled up become conspicuous; minor faults accumulated grow grave. Enough goose feathers piled together can sink a dragon boat; many light objects gathered can snap a stout axle; a puff of wind can burn down a hundred-zhang house; tiny borers can ruin a tree one must embrace to encircle.

Why did the sages of old always act with such caution, reverence, and modest care? Why do people today so often indulge arrogance and rash disrespect? Therefore the person of high character, seeing such folk from afar, turns away; the frivolous and shallow hear of them and flock like shadows. When planning affairs they get no help from the wise; in danger they receive no earnest counsel or useful guidance. The historian lifts his brush but finds no good deed worth recording; those who discuss the matter have nothing to say, for there is no virtue worth spreading. A good name cannot shine, while a bad one spreads everywhere; nothing good is left from one's lifetime, only mockery for posterity. At the start there is nothing to emulate; at the end nothing worth writing down—this is the shame of those who aspire to better things.

How can one bear to act so—committing faults and not mending them? It is like leaving the level highway to stumble into thorn thickets, or abandoning fine food to swallow gelsemium (a poisonous plant). Is this not treating small good as useless and leaving it undone, treating small evil as harmless and not stopping—until wrongdoing piles up beyond concealment and guilt grows too heavy to escape?

I urge people to abandon unrestrained conduct, cast off the faults of pride and stinginess, discard boasting, self-conceit, and looking down on others, and also cease words that mock others or violate ritual propriety. Then at Lord Pingyuan Zhao Sheng's gate (the Zhao noble of Warring States who loved to honor worthy guests) guests would not depart in disgust, and Huang Zu's (the Eastern Han Jingzhou commander notorious for cruelty) club would have no use.

Baopuzi said: Some people do not win respect by cultivating upright virtue; instead they rely on brute strength and want others to fear them. When they enter a crowd, they stand rather than sit, scramble for the central seat of honor, set their faces hard and raise their voices, push others aside so they can stand firm. If things do not go their way, they flare up in anger and refuse to yield. When they walk abroad, they will not give way even on narrow paths—they take sharing the road as a disgrace, lash their horses and hurry on, and shove others into danger. If others do not move aside at once, they keep pressing and crowding them. Alas, how pitiable!

The ancients were humble yet not to be slighted; they willingly gave shade and right of way, were diligent in modesty and courteous to scholars, and did not compete with others. When they stood, they were as deferential as if their garments could barely hold them; when they walked, they were as restrained as if there were no room for themselves beside them. How far today’s conduct is from that ancient bearing! Those whose virtue runs deep and whose integrity is clear will be respected even when they yield again and again. Those who behave arrogantly will not be honored even when they bully others on every side. If one wears the outward form of a human being yet loses the hearts of others within, one will only be loathed—how could one speak of being revered?

In former times, when Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi) had nothing to eat, King Zhao of Chu still stood respectfully at his side; when Zou Yan reached the border of Yan, the lord of Yan himself took up a broom to welcome him; in the home district of Zheng Xuan (style Kangcheng), even enemy troops saluted him; in the courtyard of Guo Tai (style Linzong), none failed to show reverence and restraint. Such respect was not extracted by force.

To grow rich through robbery and theft, even to the wealth of a kingdom, is nothing to praise; to coerce others by violent conduct, even to inspire fear, is nothing to boast of. Yet shallow, vulgar people do such things without feeling shame. Therefore, to hear them speak is like hearing the cry of the owl (ill-omened bird); to see their faces is like meeting demons and specters; wherever they go seems a gathering of monsters; to meet them on the road is like running into a pack of tigers. Fools who act thus still fancy themselves heroes; petty men take such behavior as the path to riding roughshod over others. That society falls into disorder and unrest comes precisely from this.

Yet those who dare to act in this way are not necessarily born stubborn and dull by nature. Most come from families of officials, the powerful, and those who lean on one another for influence. At first they still make some effort to do good deeds, so as to win a hollow reputation. Once their name is slightly established, their true nature runs loose.

Some use money and sensual pleasures to win over the powerful; some seize the moment to pursue glory and office; some climb through marriage to great relatives; still others manipulate praise and blame to match what those in power intend. Once ambition and power swell, their ugly conduct shows itself and disaster follows. With many followers and wide connections, their careers go smoothly and their rank rises. Upright opinion cannot set them straight, and the law cannot restrain them. They become like flies clinging to an eagle’s head, or rats hiding in the temple wall: toward those they have not yet attached themselves to, they bow low and serve eagerly; toward those below them, they put on airs and order people about at will.

So those who surpass them often never hear of their misdeeds; even if they do hear, they pretend not to know. Those less capable than they dare not speak; even if they speak, they cannot stop them. The worm that harms the grain perishes when frost comes; those who flatter, throw their weight around, and disturb the community likewise fall when political severity arrives. Someone who wants to keep integrity must refuse to serve them and refuse to imitate them. Yet if one has an axe-head but no handle, what can be done?

The Classic of Poetry praises the zhibie bird (often taken as a water bird that mates in pairs yet keeps proper restraint), valuing its sense of the boundary between inner and outer, male and female. Ritual prescribes: without a go-between, men and women must not meet face to face; they must not sit mixed together, must not exchange greetings casually, must not share clothing, and must not hand things to each other directly. When sisters marry they may visit and draw close; brothers do not sit on the same mat. Outside affairs are not brought into the inner quarters; inner words are not carried outside. A married woman receiving or seeing off guests does not cross the outer door; when she travels she must veil her face with clothing; on the road men walk on the left and women on the right. These are the clear rites by which the sages strictly guarded the line between men and women and kept trouble from starting.

Husband and wife are already very close, yet by ritual a man, unless ill, does not stay in the inner room by day; at the hour of death he is not tended by his wife—how much less by others? In the past, a woman of Lu who did not dwell in seclusion gave Hu Lu a chance to rebel; Confucius’s wife who did not carefully guard the household door led to Hua Du’s disaster; Shi Ji who left no guard left regret over the Han zhong affair.

When the men of a household lack authority and dignity, the family suffers the humiliation of being shut out at the door. Nowadays some women abandon raising silkworms and weaving, stop sewing, spinning hemp, and other domestic work, and spend whole days idling in the streets and markets. They neglect the management of food and household affairs and instead throw themselves into socializing—making appointments to go out and calling on relatives. Often they rush about from morning until night with large retinues, their glittering processions crowding the roads, maidservants, runners, and servants jumbled together like a marketplace. Along the way they jest and banter with loose, flirtatious manners that disgust onlookers; sometimes they stay overnight in others’ homes, sometimes they do not return until late at night.

They visit Buddhist temples, watch fishing and hunting, climb heights and stroll by water, and leave the city to attend celebrations or funerals. When they ride in carriages they raise the curtains and dash through the city; on the road they drink wine, playing music and singing as they go. People copy one another and treat this conduct as refined; in time, wrong ways harden into custom. To get what they want they stop at nothing and use every means. Such behavior is a root cause of leading people into licentiousness and ought to be stopped as soon as possible. The ancients said that when a man sets himself right in how he treats his wife, household and state can be set right. I hope that gentlemen will forbid this as far as they can. Women should not take part in affairs outside household management—this is to keep trouble from starting in small beginnings.

Baopuzi said: Shallow, frivolous people mingle among lofty, profound scholars and live off the connections—gaining money and support through such ties. Once their name and standing rise a little, they cast off ritual and moral teaching and claim they are only following their nature. Their talent is not outstanding, yet they insist on playing the free spirit, treating arrogant lack of restraint as great-mindedness and belittling those who cherish integrity as petty and cramped.

At the time of the La festival, dissolute good-for-nothings, when wine has gone to their heads and their faces flush with heat, form gangs and choose their companions without discrimination. Even outstanding men and broadly learned Confucians will sometimes refuse to speak with them across a fence; yet these people, wherever someone is, no matter how far, must hurry there. Linked arm in arm and shoulder to shoulder they roam and gather, push into others’ houses, stare at the women of the family, and point and comment on their height and whether they are beautiful or plain. I truly do not understand what such people are trying to do.

Some people barge in without first announcing themselves to the host; before the host has even had time to straighten cap and belt, they pay no further attention to what is proper and burst through gates, break barriers, climb walls, and bore holes—as if bandits were at the door. If the host’s wife or concubines cannot get out of the way in time, they search them out in secluded places and drag them forth—an absurdity indeed. Even when a gentleman returns to his own home, he does not suddenly appear before his family while they are unprepared; therefore he makes a sound before entering, and when he goes into the hall he is careful to avoid intruding. What justification is there, then, for rushing into someone else’s house in such a rash manner?

Yet those who indulge custom and lack backbone treat being able to conduct themselves this way as closeness, and treat refusing such conduct as lack of worldly ease—they even say the times are such that one cannot do otherwise. So they invite noisy crowds, enter to look upon the host’s wife, sit pressed together, raise cups and drink at close quarters, strum and sing frivolous and vulgar tunes, and tempt women in the manner of Zhuo Wenjun to lose their hearts. They clamor and banter with low and obscene jest, abandon all restraint, and even treat disturbing the proper order between men and women as sport—conduct like what the “Rat” ode in the Yong section of the Book of Poetry ridicules for utter lack of ritual. The overthrow of Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang, and the fall of the states of Zhou and Chen, all had to do with failure to uphold ritual—how much more so for ordinary people?

If sincerity does not come from within, repeated oaths are of no use; when minds communicate and spirits align, outward forms of ritual need not be clung to. When gentlemen associate, they draw near through shared Way and aligned purpose, so the tie is plain yet long-lasting; when petty men bond, they rely on power and profit and draw close through disrespect and undue familiarity, so at first it is sweet and in the end it spoils. Why must one set a banquet in the inner chambers and have one’s wife and concubines join the drinking merely to show sincerity and seem close?

The ancients were wary that licentiousness leads to ruin, and therefore guarded it minutely, blocking the start of wayward conduct from small beginnings—one might say they thought it through very thoroughly. Those who follow these norms are gentlemen; those who violate them are offenders. Yet if prohibitions are too lax, men who climb walls and enter houses will appear within the palace chambers; drinking feasts…

When prohibitions grow lax, men will break into homes and steal property; when the law is full of loopholes, women will meet in secret and elope. If such trends are allowed to spread unchecked, it is like casting a raging fire into the Yunmeng marsh, or breaching a vast reservoir at a height of ten thousand ren—how could one hope to extinguish it with a broom, or block it with a handful of earth?

Yet once a custom takes hold among people, everyone says: this is simply what young nobles and the wealthy in the great capital do together. I always object: the Central Plains are the birthplace of ritual; how could the rites approve such conduct? This is likely a fashion that arose in times of decline and disorder, not an ancient custom of an age of peace.

Laozi (Lao Dan) was a man of utmost quietness and detachment, yet he still dared not look directly at what he desired, lest his spirit be disturbed. Liuxia Hui, though upright in character, if he repeatedly placed himself amid frivolous and dissolute banquets, would inevitably feel desire within and show it outwardly. How much more so for ordinary people—those truly cold to passion are perhaps one in ten thousand, and those who can restrain passion are few. Such a trend is hardly worth praising or perpetuating.

Poor scholars may see clearly that this custom is not worth imitating, yet they have neither fame nor power to reform it, and so they often lament. I too am often hated by such people, called crude and awkward, ignorant of how to fit the times. I can only hold to my conviction: since I find the practice wrong, why force myself to follow others? Lamentable things are not limited to this one; most are much the same. Alas, I am truly at a loss. Those stained by evil custom and sunk in ruin—how would they heed harsh but honest counsel and turn back from paths they have long since taken?

Baopu zi said: Among worldly people there is a practice of mocking and tormenting women. In crowded gatherings, before kin, they question her with coarse words and reproach her for answering too slowly or without proper deference. Such behavior is vulgar and frivolous, hard to bear. Sometimes they force her to be beaten with sticks, or bind her feet and hang her upside down; when drinkers are drunk they know no limit, even to the point of making her bleed, injuring sinews and bones, or breaking limbs.

It is truly a cause for sighing. When people of old faced parting, they did not put out their candles; when they took mourning upon themselves in a relative’s stead, they did not play music. The ritual texts, when they speak of marriage, also say that people ought to be modest and ashamed, and ought not congratulate one another. Today, since people can no longer personally follow the ancient rites in full, those whose conduct is respected in their villages and whose words carry weight among scholars ought to set their countenance aright and sternly rebuke this trend. How can they drift with the current and help such a harmful custom spread?

Yet this practice has long been common among the people, and they no longer notice that it is wrong. Sometimes gentle persuasion cannot stop it; only harsh punishment can. Then some belittle the Duke of Zhou and reproach Confucius, calling arrogance and license “transcending the vulgar world.” Others, seizing on sudden turns of fortune, rashly snatch honor and high rank; or, lifted by the patronage of the powerful, leap overnight into prominence.

Such people then boast of themselves; their air seems to tower above the clouds. In bearing they are haughty and in gaze they look far beyond others, imagining themselves utterly satisfied and free. When they glance back at those whose circumstances go against them and whom their peers shut out—even when those persons are genuinely talented—they treat them like worthless weeds. Some recline on pillows and cushions while receiving guests; some plead illness and refuse visitors. They do this to fill their gates with scholars and choke the lanes with carriages and horses; they call this distinction and believe that without it they lack proper standing.

As for rank and power, even the Duke of Zhou still busied himself with honoring the worthy—spitting out food in his mouth and grasping his hair to rise and receive a guest at once. As for reputation and learning, Confucius too was gentle and humble, skilled at leading people step by step. Both took diligence and modesty as their chief concern and never treated insolent pride as something lofty. The temper of the late Han was the opposite of this.

Then some wore their hair loose and unkempt, their temples disheveled, their sashes untied; some received visitors in careless dress, some bared their bodies and squatted without propriety. When friends met or like-minded people associated, few seriously discussed elevating virtue or pursuing study, or pointed out one another’s faults and urged reform, or debated principle and explored right and wrong.

After meeting, they no longer exchanged polite inquiries about how each had fared since parting, nor asked whether all was well. A guest entered and at once shouted for servants; the host, seeing a guest, called for dogs. Whoever did not act thus was deemed insufficiently intimate, driven out, and not accepted into the clique. At feasts they squatted like foxes and drank like cattle, scrambling for food and vying to carve, pulling and shoving without shame. They regarded those who went along with this spirit as bold and spirited, and those who did not as base. All day they heard not a word about the Way of duty; all night they gained not a sentence of admonition or benefit.

They twist and misquote Laozi and Zhuangzi, treat letting oneself go as something to prize, take “great conduct pays no heed to minor rites” and “the perfected person is not bound by petty restraint” as rules for life, and call loud, unrestrained howling and arrogant license “in keeping with the Dao-nature.” Alas—how regrettable; can this fail to move one to grief?

So they banter with one another to draw closer, and behave with abandon to show intimacy. They label someone lounging with legs stretched out as strikingly alluring, and dismiss the dignified and solemn as a rustic dullard; they praise the contemptuous and finger-wagging as quick-witted, and mock those who speak in an orderly way as slow to answer and abrupt in speech.

These shallow people are skilled at flattering the world and gathering their own kind, and they boost one another, so they rise quickly—yet most are smooth on the surface and empty within. It is like the Shu saying about the “gourd flask”: not a single essay in the breast, and all they know is wine and meat. This is exactly the unworthy son in Zuo’s account—arrogant and defiant toward bright virtue, deaf to admonition, benighted and greedy for goods, and gluttonous besides.

Ask them about the subtle meaning in the Fen and Suo (a general name for ancient classics), the nature of ghosts and spirits, the principles of change in the ten thousand things, strange customs in various regions, the great rites of court and ancestral temple, suburban and di sacrifices (ancient rites to Heaven and ancestors), the three beginnings and four starts (systems for reckoning the calendar year), the rules of yin-yang, pitchpipes, and the calendar, military and civil rites and state sacrificial codes, and what ancient and modern institutions share or differ—and they panic, mouths agape, unable to answer, faces blank. Though they know inwardly that they are like someone facing a wall with no insight, they still cover their shortcomings, refuse to admit fault quietly, and instead force high talk: “These scraps of lore are what alley scholars and pedantic exegetes ought to know, what those who chant dry bamboo slips and pore over yellow paper care about. To question us with such things is beneath notice.”

Those who truly know the harm of neglecting study, who appreciate the value of the broadly learned Confucian, and who understand that the path they follow is wrong and that acting rashly brings fault—yet still wander on and refuse to turn back—do so because indulging in reckless behavior does not stop them from chasing fame, profit, and advancement.

When people of high virtue admonish them with maxims and rebuke them, and those who do not respect their elders and will not abandon bad habits are lowered in reputation and rank, they ought to feel fear and reform as if ice were melting; then they would leave behind the traces of a swift departure.

— End of Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, Scroll 25

Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, Scroll 26: “Ridicule of Delusion” (Jihuo)

Baopuzi said: When the clear and the turbid are distinguished, the myriad things are generated from this. Among flying birds, some can even answer human speech; among running beasts…

The Baopuzi says: Only after clear and turbid were separated and Heaven and Earth were distinguished could the myriad things grow and change. Among birds, some can answer human speech; among beasts, some can understand human words. Apes and monkeys can remember the past; deer can foreknow the future; the dark bird (xuan niao) can grasp Yin-Yang transformations; snakes and ants can sense the flow of springs in advance. Such abilities surpass what divination with yarrow stalks and tortoise shells can match, and astronomers like Gan De and Shi Shen could hardly excel them. Yet these creatures ultimately do not understand ritual propriety (li), and therefore cannot be ranked among humanity’s noble kind.

In the earliest antiquity, people had no distinctions of rank. Sages lamented that life then was crude and chaotic and that dwelling in nests was contemptible; they therefore built houses so that people might leave the way of birds and beasts, and they established ritual to distinguish superior from inferior. They taught orderly steps when walking and deferential bowing when meeting; upright bearing when standing and hands joined in respect when saluting. As for rules for walking, ascending and descending steps, and deportment when looking and responding, there are three thousand in all. These rites are like dikes that guard against excess in conduct—what is urgently needed to sustain human order.

Thus dignified bearing is the foremost demand of ritual; observing a person’s demeanor is also the first of the five norms of conduct. When going out, one should be as respectful as when receiving a guest; in solitude, one should still be cautious and self-restrained. Yan Hui arranged his appearance even when bathing at night; Zhong You, on his deathbed, still tied his cap tassels. Once reverent deportment slackens even slightly, neglect and indulgence follow. To settle those above and govern the people—without ritual, nothing can be done.

People cannot do without ritual, just as fish cannot do without water. Once fish leave water, even if they can gasp for a while, they will inevitably dry up and die; if people abandon ritual, though outwardly they may still look human, they have already taken the road that leads to ruin. Lu upheld the rites of Zhou, and brutal armies dared not invade; Duke Wen of Wei took Duan Gan Mu as his model, and a powerful enemy withdrew its troops. Chu had a million armored soldiers yet was fragile as withered grass; Qin relied on the perilous passes of Mount Yao and Hangu, yet was no sturdier than a bent willow. Was it not because they cast away the root of establishing themselves and governing the realm that they brought such outcomes upon themselves?

All the more so today—how can people simply indulge their desires and passions? War has dragged on for long; customs are corrupt, teaching decayed, ritual broken down, and habits of casualness and neglect have gradually formed. People living in an age of failing transformation are like fish escaped from the net or beasts that have broken out of the hunter’s snare—utterly unrestrained. Since the wars began, things have changed again and again; the styles of caps, shoes, sleeves, and collars change day by day, with no fixed pattern left.

At times long, at times short; now wide, now narrow; now high, now low; sometimes thick, sometimes thin—the styles of dress and ornament keep shifting, and people take pleasure in looking alike. Those who chase fashion follow the latest look morning and evening. Just as people in the capital region then prized heavy, thick eyebrows, people far away all painted their brows in the half-forehead style.

I am an ordinary person and not good at keeping up with fashion. Garments change in too many ways for me to manage, so I do not change with them. As long as nothing is actually harmed, I have never swapped styles; even when I see people pointing at me and laughing, I pay no attention. Do I mean to oppose everyone on purpose? I simply feel these things are not urgent.

Many things in the Central Plains are indeed better than those in the Jiangnan region, yet there are also points worth questioning. When a gentleman observes ritual, he need not always alter local custom; when serving abroad, he need not discard the habits of home. All the more so when one is in the land of one’s parents—why cast off old ways to keep up with fashion and force oneself to imitate practices from elsewhere?

Among those skilled in calligraphy in Wu, Huang Xiang, Liu Zuan, Cen Bolan, and Zhu Jiping were outstanding writers of their day; in the Central Plains there were also Zhong Yao, Hu Zhao, Kong Ming, Zhang Zhi, Suo Jing, and others, each representing the finest brushwork of his region. They all continued the ancient forms, which were quite enough for everyday needs. I hold that to abandon a script one already knows and laboriously learn Central Plains calligraphy is unnecessary; how much more so when some even change their speech and mimic the northern accent—the result is both halting and ridiculous. It is just like the story of learning the walk of the people of Handan: one fails to master their gait and can only crawl home, inviting mockery.

This is still a small matter. Some families, when in mourning, imitate the way people in the Central Plains weep, so that their crying suddenly seems stripped of genuine grief for the dead. In antiquity Zhong Yi and Zhuang Xi did not forget the accent of their homeland; the ancients regarded that as admirable. Confucius said that one who has lost a parent grieves like an infant who has lost its mother—such heartbroken wailing is hardly an ordinary sound.

It is better to let grief show fully than to fall short in ritual propriety. Weeping is meant to release sorrow; what has the beauty or pleasantness of the crying voice to do with true mourning? Deliberately embellishing one’s wails is not genuine grief.

I have also heard that when some high nobles suffer a major bereavement, if they are ill they take mineral dispersing powders (shisan, a class of mineral drugs) and often continue to eat; to help the medicine “disperse,” they also drink wine. If the illness is severe and the body too weak to bear wind and cold, they may use curtains and bedding as their condition requires. Then vulgar people with money copy them: they no longer keep vigil at the mourning place but stay in other rooms, sleep on high beds with thick quilts, eat well, and drink heavily; sometimes they even pour wine with close guests until thoroughly drunk. They say, “This is the custom of Jing-Luo (the Luoyang region).” That is truly lamentable.

In my native place, worthy gentlemen of earlier generations—even when burdened with heavy mourning duties and old and frail themselves—would wear the prescribed mourning garments and hemp sashes and still grieve so deeply that they lived on thin gruel and would not let anything sweet touch their lips. People of the time, even if their conduct was not perfect, admired them and tried to follow their example. Today people indulge themselves to this extent; compared with the past, how vast the gap!

Ordinary people, not knowing the facts, say that Chinese mostly mourn in extravagant, unrestrained ways. That is not so. I have heard that the four Jin emperors—Xuan, Jing, Wen, and Wu—when mourning their parents were so devastated that they wasted away beyond what the rites allowed. They also did not follow the twenty-five-month mourning period set by the Wang clan, but observed mourning for seven months. Throughout the realm, those who wore deep mourning for kin took these four emperors as their model. Why do people refuse to hear of this and instead slander the virtuous without basis? Is that not very confused?

End of Outer Chapters of Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi Waipian), Scroll 26.

Baopu Zi says: Those born into eminent families and placed amid red-hot political power often need not deliberately pursue arrogance—pride and self-satisfaction grow on their own. Unless one’s talent and insight far surpass ordinary people, it is hard to avoid errors born of excessive self-congratulation. Diligence, humility, and treating others with modesty bring many who wish to draw near; haughtiness and contempt drive many away. When many draw near, one’s position stays secure; when many leave, that is a sign of danger. The hinge of safety and ruin lies here—if one treats this lightly, is that not folly?

Some also rise from humble origins, advancing step by step from obscurity. At first they shrink their shoulders, restrain themselves, and act with caution, deferentially attaching themselves to the powerful, and leap ahead by fortune and opportunity. Once their wings are full and their standing firm, they hold their heads high, see no one as their equal, imagine themselves perfectly content, and treat others like weeds. Some host private feasts with an endless stream of guests, then later refuse to receive those who call; even among the same circle of visitors, they favor some and do not necessarily treat everyone with equal care. Some, to gain an audience, call repeatedly, bustle about eagerly, and keep sending gifts, asking only that the host find time to receive them once.

What Mencius called “loving without respecting” is treating people like livestock to be kept. Many do this today yet call it the way of self-respect. True self-respect lies in holding high rank yet still treating those below with courtesy, restraining oneself through humility—not in such behavior. This is merely the deep-seated ill of a decaying age and stubborn custom, which people accept as normal—a thing truly lamentable.

As for those who truly have breadth of spirit and real capacity, their minds are open and their aims lofty; they act in solitary transcendence and rest at ease within. Though they stand in the torrent of worldly affairs, their spirit seems to ascend to the Nine Profundities; when the Dao fills them inwardly, they do not set their hearts on external things. Even if their caps are worn through, their shoes split, their clothes in rags, and only a rope at the waist, they will not vie with worldly people for chances to cling to the powerful, will not polish a fawning, ingratiating manner, and will not chatter like petty clerks in the palace—noisy as spring cicadas and summer flies.

People often judge others by their appearance, expecting someone to look handsome and respectable. Ordinary people see only a rough, plain exterior and miss the depth of inner spirit; they fix on the surface and fail to understand a person’s heart and will. Someone may be extraordinarily talented, far beyond the common run, whose every gesture could teach the world how to live and whose brief words could resolve doubts old and new—yet because they are cautious and restrained, speaking only what accords with reason, they may live in a thatched hut. Like a fragile blade of grass that cannot move a thousand-pound weight, they go unvalued; like a dwarf who cannot see lofty vistas, others cannot grasp their talent and virtue. People then mock them and take them for mediocre and dull.

Unless one is from Handong, one will not recognize a pearl sunk in clam mud; unless one has wept blood oneself, one can hardly pick out a night pearl in deep cliffs. Tiny jiaomeng insects gather on a mosquito’s brow and laugh at the sky-darkening peng bird; little bream swim in hoofprints filled with water and look down on the great fish that cross the sea. Their paths of cultivation do not meet; their intelligence is not enough to enlighten one another. Principles were never aligned in the first place, so there is nothing strange about it. Therefore I grieve over this and cannot help speaking out. I hope gentlemen in office will not choose people by looks alone, and will urge themselves to humility and self-restraint, so as to uphold the order Heaven has given.

Baopuzi said: When people hear that Dai Shuluan and Ruan Sizong (Wei-Jin literati) looked down on the world and lived freely without restraint, they praise their broad spirit—yet they do not weigh whether their own ability can compare, and they admire and copy them. Some let their hair hang loose; some bare their bodies and squat without propriety; some wash their feet in a crowd, some urinate in public; some make guests wait while they eat alone; when pouring wine, some serve only those close to them. Such conduct resembles people not yet shaped by Chinese ritual and custom; it is not what proper society in the Central Plains considers fitting.

Even with talent like Dai Shuluan and Ruan Sizong, indulgence still harmed them—the gain did not make up for the loss.

If those two men (the ones being criticized) had honored ritual propriety, restrained themselves, treated others with deference, and acted with caution, their achievements would have far surpassed what they actually attained. How much more is this true of people who fall far short of them yet still copy their manner of acting—they are bound quickly to bring disaster on themselves and endanger their own lives. In behaving this way, can the harm be limited merely to failing to win praise for upright virtue?

In antiquity, Xishi (a woman famed for her beauty in the Spring and Autumn period), suffering heart pain, lay by the roadside. Her looks were lovely and she carried the scent of orchid and musk; passersby found her beautiful and pitied her illness, stopping to show concern. A homely woman next door envied her and feigned heart pain, lying by the road as well. She was ugly by nature and reeked foully; people detested her appearance and smell, turning aside to cover their noses and hurry past. Today some people lack the natural endowment and talent of Dai Kui and Ruan Ji, yet imitate their arrogance and rudeness—just like the ugly woman who did not know her own condition and blindly copied Xishi.

Even emperors treat the Three Elders and the Five Respected (honored seniors in antiquity) with the courtesy due to their own sons and daughters, using this practice to guide everyone to honor the aged. For a person not to observe ritual is a grave matter. One who treats others with contempt will surely fail to respect even his own parents. If you wish others to respect you, you must first know how to respect yourself. Not doing good makes one evil; not undertaking great things leaves one merely petty. King Zhou of Shang was unprincipled and therefore called the “Lone Man”; Confucius, though a subject of feudal lords, was honored as the “Uncrowned King” (a sage with kingly virtue but no royal title). Thus a junzi’s worth does not lie in wealth and rank.

Nowadays some commit acts that violate ritual yet refuse to hear others warn that they will soon invite disaster and death—like carrying a pig on one’s back yet resenting it when others say it stinks, or being smeared with mud yet taking offense when others point out the filth.

In antiquity, Xin You (a minister of Jin in the Spring and Autumn period), seeing someone worship with hair disheveled, foresaw that the Rong would rise. I observe that in the age of Huai and E (when the Zhou royal house declined and customs decayed), people then valued arrogance and contempt, treating others like barbarians. Later the Qiang and Hu raided the Central Plains and plundered the capital. Looking back, one sees that those earlier anomalies were omens of turmoil to come. Now the realm tends toward stability and revival already shows signs of beginning—how can we not together correct past faults and cultivate orderly ritual and a fine, dignified bearing? Only when one enters a place swarming with tigers and wolves does one know how bold Meng Ben and Xia Yu (ancient warriors famed for strength) were; only amid customs where ritual has collapsed does one see all the more clearly that those who uphold ritual do not change their conduct.

As moral teaching grows ever weaker and trends that stray from the right path spread wider, worthy men and scholars ought to work together to uphold social harmony. They should also share a sober grief for the age’s decline and strive to set things right. If their strength falls short and they truly cannot turn the tide, they should still keep their conduct like bamboo and pine—unchanged by the cold. How could they instead rush about in rivalry, courting base and shallow people just to win acceptance? That only carries one farther from the right path—a thing truly painful to see.

Some suddenly hold to the right way with unwavering firmness. They do not bend like tumbleweed in the wind, nor trade an upright, refined spirit for vulgar fashion. Others can plainly see their good conduct, yet because they differ from themselves, they treat them as enemies and refuse to count them as companions on the same path. Alas—has the decay of the times really reached this point?

The noble person should be upright, clear, and square—never currying favor with the crowd or joining factions with vulgar fashion. Like clear water stirring muddy water, like a strong shaft straightening what is crooked, he may still fail to win the world’s approval or gain wealth and rank. Yet as long as the “Heavenly nobility” within—the dignity and worth one is born with—remains, what is there to grieve or resent in standing apart or finding the road to office blocked?

To win the crowd’s favor by cutting away one’s own roots, mingling with the filthy, cutting the foot to fit the shoe, or filing down one’s edges to suit smooth worldly ways—is that not going too far? One who guards integrity cannot stop others from hating him, yet his Way must not bow; cannot stop others from shaming him, yet his conduct remains in his own hands; cannot stop others from shutting him out, yet his integrity must not change. Once resolve is fixed and the decision made, neither persuasion nor obstruction can shake him. At peace with Heaven’s mandate and clear about his own lot, worry cannot break into his heart; in hardship his integrity only grows firmer, and even at an dead end he does not regret.

Who truly sets his heart like this would ever be like grass blown by the wind or duckweed drifting on water—forcing ill-fitting pieces together to please others, or imitating those whom ritual and righteousness have cast aside?

Ge Hong said: I have heard that in the late Han there were people who did not follow the proper path; they ranked and graded one another and pushed those who were arrogant and refused to be bound by moral norms to the front as leaders. They called themselves “understanding,” yet in fact they all turned away from ritual and teaching and indulged in deviant conduct; they mocked and slandered the upright, attacked those who differed from them, often spoke coarse words, and their actions were corrupt in ways too unpleasant to describe in detail.

What the ancients meant by “understanding” (tongda) was understanding the Way and virtue and attaining benevolence and righteousness—how could it mean understanding contempt and dissipation and attaining lewdness and depravity? Some of these people resembled the robber Dao Zhi of legend, yet claimed for themselves the five qualities of the sage’s Way. Such a trend corrupts human relations and does more harm than brigands and rebellion; the damage it does is not merely ruining a garment.

Some sons of noble houses and men in office paid no heed to ritual and law; they often received guests bareheaded and with exposed bodies, sitting in arrogant postures. This not only harmed the dignified bearing heaven gives to human beings but also affected the common people. When the young saw this, some who were originally upright in character and some who merely stole a reputation also copied it in person; then ordinary people assumed that in getting on in the world there was no better way.

To keep ritual and restrain oneself is laborious and hard; those who keep propriety are often poor and lowly. To be arrogant and unrestrained is easy and comfortable; those who follow that path often rise quickly. So people in the world abandoned the former and chased the latter.

Some in the world had no clean, upright conduct in youth yet became rich and honored by buying office; or they had enough wit to cover themselves and a clique to recommend and support one another. The ill-conducted took them as proof and said: “That man indulged his desires and still became eminent; this man was careful in self-cultivation and followed the right path yet could not escape poverty and low status.” They did not understand that some rise because good fortune came their way and some fall suddenly because opportunity never arrived—these outcomes are not necessarily caused by character. Those called “connected in every direction” are precisely people who like to support and attach themselves to their own side, and that is how such influence is built up.

Before they could even finish putting on their shoes or tighten their belts, people would take one another by the hand and hurry into the hall, sleeves rolled up. Out in the street they pressed so close their knees touched; word of a gathering was enough to send them straight there. Gifts poured in without end; whatever they asked was granted; whatever they wanted, they got; their words were indulged; when trouble came, someone bailed them out. If a patron spoke for you, a lame nag might be praised like a thoroughbred; if someone wanted you ruined, you could be as dutiful as Xiaoji and still be smeared like the unfilial Shangchen.

That is why petty men rush to crowd around power, the way floodwater bursts a dyke ten thousand feet high, or fire races across the dry grass of the Yunmeng marshes—swift, overwhelming, impossible to hold back. To expect that tide to turn solemn, harmonious, and well ordered, so the young have worthy models, is like roasting ice to dry it or heaping ashes and hoping they blaze. It cannot be done.

Ge Hong said that high officials at the center such as the Three Excellencies and the Nine Ministers discuss the Way while seated in council, while regional governors and prefects manage local administration, grasping essentials and overseeing the whole. The higher the office, the more leeway and breathing room in public affairs; the heaviest burdens fall on county magistrates and district chiefs. All kinds of corvée labor are dispatched from the county level, and every sort of levy and requisition pours in upon them. Even if governors and prefects are wise and capable, if county magistrates and district chiefs are unfit, state affairs cannot be well conducted. When governance slips at any point, the harm is never confined to a single locality. Therefore selecting county magistrates and district chiefs with real talent is especially urgent—more so than appointing central officials.

When county magistrates and district chiefs are poorly chosen, the reason is invariably that impartial, public-spirited standards are not applied, while private favoritism is not checked. Some are appointed because their fathers and elder brothers are prominent, and the younger men ride in on reputation and family standing; some win posts through patronage by the powerful, so the incompetent receive appointment; others are kept in office because they have long enjoyed trust or because of close kinship, even when everyone knows they are unsuitable. Such appointments may occasionally happen to fit the post and are not wholly without effect, but for the most part the choices remain careless and imprecise.

Those who hold fast to integrity, strive to remain upright and simple, work at their duties day and night to earn the people’s praise, and fear poor performance as a disgrace to those who recommended them—such people are truly rare. Mediocre and base persons have narrow minds and short horizons; they crave wealth, think only of enrichment, indulge their desires, and never know satisfaction. Supervising officials know they are insatiably greedy and ought to act on recommendations, impeachments, and oversight from above—yet in the end they fear making enemies and being slandered in return, so they dare not confront them and leave them to plunder and tyrannize. How then can the people avoid hardship, resentment, and even turning away in disloyalty? When deserters multiply, they must band together and become bandits.

A tower a hundred zhang high can be consumed by sparks carried on a slight breeze; a wave a thousand zhang high can break from an ant’s nest. How can such hidden dangers not be strictly guarded against? How can institutions not be put in order? Yet those who hold the scales of judgment sometimes set aside the criteria for selecting talent and act on personal likes and dislikes; those who wield the axe-handle of appointment sometimes bend the rules for those close to them. Those responsible for choosing officials no longer pick the right people for the posts, and those who seek office do not believe themselves unqualified.

When those who govern let administration decay while supposedly managing affairs, and those who rule the people scatter and divide them instead, the state is already in trouble. Some officials follow private whim; those who control selection and appointment sometimes bend the rules to favor their own circle. The selectors fail to choose capable people for the throne’s service, while office-seekers never admit they are unfit. The result is the same pattern: government rots while it is “governed,” and the people break apart while they are “managed.”

Some stain their character with arrogance and excess, grinding the people down. Some rule with harshness and cruelty, provoking widespread resentment and revolt. Some are muddled and confused, throwing every branch of administration into disorder. Some are slack and inattentive, so that discipline and performance collapse. Some pour effort into projects the realm does not need, draining the people’s labor. Some hide fugitives and tolerate violence. Some do not understand the law and are easily misled and used. Some abandon duty for music, wine, and pleasure. Some lose themselves in weiqi and chupu (ancient board games) and neglect public business. Some hunt, feast, and play until they forget their offices entirely. Some refuse to hear cases, so that courts and punishments fall into chaos.

The people can bear it no longer and rise as bandits and rebels. When guilt is proved, the state throws them into the bramble prison (confinement among thorn hedges). That injures the ruler’s standing, swells and complicates the penal code, and deepens suffering that was already severe. To put the wrong people in office is like fitting an ornate bridle on a wooden horse and expecting it to run with true chargers—how could it keep up? It is like sending a dragon molded from mud to meet the clouds—how could it blaze along the sky’s highway?

If those who hold power and speak the king’s will could judge talent as keen horse-men read a steed’s spirit—keeping lame, weak nags out of the ranks of Qiji and Erliu (legendary fine horses)—and if they could make the overconfident and the lucky fear a fall midway, refusing to yoke poor beasts to splendid chariot bars, then why doubt that affairs could be set right, or that the Four Evils could be driven off? The deeds of the Three Sovereigns would not seem too much to ask; adding another golden age to the Five Emperors would not be beyond reach.

Ge Hong said in the Baopozi: When someone of outstanding talent meets a person who truly knows how to appreciate them, it does not take long for a firm bond to form between them, like the friendship of metal and orchid (jinlan). When a person of exceptional ability meets someone of discernment, they need not go through repeated scrutiny before each side understands and confirms the other’s worth. When they meet, their spirit lifts and soars lightly, as if a wild goose rides a strong wind upward, or a fish leaps on clouds stirred by its own startled motion.

If one holds that those of low station and crushed by circumstance are unfit for employment, then Jiang Taigong would never have been used by the Zhou king. If one thinks that people from distant ties and humble birth may be shut out, then Mao Sui would never have risen to prominence in Zhao. If one insists that only after long accumulation of unstained conduct may public affairs be entrusted, then Ning Qi would never have achieved distinction in Qi. If one values only those already famous early in life and loads them with heavy responsibility, then Chen Ping and Han Xin would never have been taken into service by Han.

The wise, when selecting people, grasp what matters and do not nitpick details; they are neither jealous nor grasping, and so they can establish authority, achieve merit, and govern the realm. How could they be like weighing firewood before lighting a fire, or counting grains of rice before cooking a meal? How could they discard an entire jade for a flaw, or part the hair hunting for a tiny mole?

End of Baopuzi waipian, juan 29.

Thirty-one: Baopuzi waipian, juan 30

Junshi (Weighing the Age)

Some say: The ancients who wrote books had exceptional talent and far-reaching thought, so their prose was reserved and deep, not easy to understand; people today…

Some say: “Writers of antiquity had greater talent and deeper thought, so their writings were subtle and hard to understand; people today have shallow insight and limited ability, so their writings are plain and easy to read. If you compare easily understood modern texts with difficult ancient ones, it is like comparing a ditch to a great river, or an anthill to Mount Song and Mount Tai. If water does not rise from Kunlun, it cannot gather into a mighty stream flowing east; if a book is not written by an outstanding person, it will have no far-reaching, grand flavor.”

Baopuzi replied: “One who views things only through the hole in a bamboo tube cannot be told about the vast realm beyond the Nine Heavens; one whose vision is confined cannot be expected to have exceptional, original insight. The sages of old were not spirits or ghosts. Though their bodies have long vanished, their thoughts are preserved in books, their feelings expressed in words, and their intent can still be sought.

That many passages in ancient books are obscure does not necessarily mean the ancients deliberately made them difficult. It may be due to the changing times and shifting language, or to regional dialects; it may also be because of war and neglect, with books buried for long periods so that bamboo slips and binding cords rotted and broke, and much was lost. Sometimes old text was mixed with later writing, leaving gaps; sometimes chapters and sentences were missing. For this reason they are hard to read and therefore seem especially profound.

The Documents (Shangshu) gathers records of governance, yet in clarity, richness, and elegance of writing it still falls short of excellent recent essays, edicts, policy memorials, military documents, and memorials to the throne. The Odes (Maoshi) is rich in ornament, yet in breadth and fullness of content it does not match Rhapsody on the Upper Park, Rhapsody on the Feathered Hunt, the Two Capitals Rhapsodies, and the Three Metropolises Rhapsodies. Given this, why can the writings of the ancient masters still surpass authors of the present?

It is because those who cling rigidly to convention can only drone through what they already know; they have ears but no eyes—how could they admit such a point? They treat the works of the ancients as miraculous and the writings of the age as shallow. Revering antiquity and belittling the present has long been a prevailing attitude. That is why a new sword, if falsely labeled as an antique, can fetch a higher price; an old prescription, if falsely attributed to a famous master, will also be taken for a treasure. For this very reason, even when ancient books are plain, conventional scholars still regard them as so lofty they seem to come from the heavens…”

Today’s writings may be as splendid as gold and jade, yet they are often taken for mere tiles and pebbles. The habit of slighting what is at hand and cherishing what is old goes back a long way. Hence a new sword, if inscribed with a forged antique legend, fetches a higher price; an old prescription, if labeled with a false ancient name, is treated as a treasure. For that reason, though ancient books are plain, vulgar scholars speak of them as if they were rare objects fallen from heaven; though modern prose may gleam like gold and jade, ordinary readers still see it as rubble.

Ancient books are numerous, but not every one is excellent. They should be like mountains, rivers, lakes, and seas that scholars may quarry and fish from, so that those who write can draw something from them. Yet that is like the woods of Dong’ou and Changzhou: though there are many catalpa and zhang trees, one cannot say that splendid halls and fine houses already stand there; or like the marshes of Yunmeng and Mengzhu: though fish and flesh abound, one cannot say that a rich feast and exquisite dishes are already laid out.

Modern poetry and ancient poetry each have their own principles, but the gap in quality between them is very wide. They are like two men of virtue, one of whom excels especially at composition—you cannot say the two are indistinguishable; or like two women of striking beauty, one of whom is also skilled in many arts—you cannot say they are exactly the same.

On the same subject of palaces, how can Xi Si’s poem praising the Lu ruler’s sleeping quarters compare with Wang Yanshou’s rhapsody on the Hall of Lingguang? On the same subject of the hunt, how can the poems of Shudiao and Luling compare with Sima Xiangru’s rhapsody on the Shanglin Park? On the same subject of sacrifice, how can the pieces “Qingmiao” and “Yunhan” compare with Guo’s ornate account of the southern suburban rite? On the same subject of campaign, how can “Chujun” and “Liuyue” compare with Chen Lin’s vigorous writing on military affairs? These examples alone show how great the difference is.

Recently both Xia Houyuan and Pan Anren wrote “Supplementing the Lost Odes,” filling in such lost pieces from the Book of Songs as “Baihua,” “Yougeng,” “Nanbin,” and “Huatai.” Many learned and talented critics of literature agreed that among the three hundred poems of the Book of Songs, not one could stand up to the work of these two men.

Moreover, things of antiquity were for the most part plain and solid; things of today are without exception finely carved and polished. As times shift and customs change, that is simply the way of nature.

Brocade may be gorgeous and durable, yet no one would say for that reason that it is worse than a straw rain cape. A carriage may be finely ornamented and sturdily built, yet no one would say for that reason that it is inferior to a simple rustic cart. Writing is like speaking. If in conversation one deliberately makes one’s words abstruse and hard to follow, then even when both sides know what they mean—as with peoples whose languages do not match, like the Hu and the Yue—they still cannot truly understand each other. To teach and exhort others in that way—who could grasp it?

If to speak clearly and be easily understood counts as skill in argument, why should writing take being difficult to understand as a merit? Boats and carriages replaced walking and wading; writing replaced knot-recording. Later things surpass earlier ones; cases where usefulness builds up step by step, differing by millions upon millions, are beyond counting. Everyone in the world sees this and has long tired of what is old. Why, then, is it only literary writing that is held to be worse than the ancients?

Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, fascicle 30, complete.

Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, fascicle 31: “Reducing Redundancy” (Sheng Fan)

Baopuzi says: For securing rulers and governing the people, nothing is better than ritual. Ritual covers human relations and is indeed thought through with great care. Yet why must the capping rite, wedding rite, drinking rite, and archery rite be drawn out to such tedious lengths? Human relations certainly value ritual propriety, but it is enough that ceremony distinguish high and low and convey feeling and respect—why must people repeatedly ascend and descend, bow and defer, and endlessly kneel, rise, bow, and prostrate?

In former times when the realm was at peace and all was quiet within the four seas, officials who loved ancient forms sometimes practiced these rites. They often studied and examined them for months on end, driven by the lash, practicing day and night without time to eat or sleep. After such long study of elaborate ceremony, everything came down to a single day’s examination: performing according to the ritual texts and grading by the articles; demotion and punishment were built in. Even so, mistakes and failure to grasp essentials still occurred. To make such ritual the daily norm every common person must follow was truly hard to put into practice. This is exactly what Mozi meant when he said that one generation could spend a lifetime without finishing the study of these rites, and a single lifespan could not exhaust inquiry into the matters involved.

The ancients sought instruction from woodcutters and gleaners, and widely took up children’s songs; even words of the reckless were sifted and used. Mozi’s proposals cannot of course be rejected wholesale. Only in setting punishments, opening paths of governance, handling human affairs, and completing the kingly way—the ideal of ruling all under Heaven through benevolence and righteousness—he did not treat each point in full detail. As for his criticism of lavish burial and his ridicule of over-elaborate ritual, those views should not be discarded either.

After the Jian’an era, Emperor Wu of Wei (Cao Cao) and Emperor Wen of Wei (Cao Pi) fixed burial institutions and strove for frugality. This shows that some of Mozi’s program could be carried out. I hold that once disorder and mourning have been settled and court and countryside are at rest, the sovereign may shape institutions and open new precedents suited to his age. He may charge persons of deep learning, broad experience, and judgment to add or cut as needed to edit the Three Rites (Zhouli, Yili, Liji), remove what is unnecessary, clarify the sources of ritual, gather related matters, and arrange them by category so that kindred topics stand together.

If verbose, repetitive texts differ only in wording while meaning the same, keep them; material that is rarely used can be removed without real loss. Related passages can also be consolidated and arranged so that the rules read briefly and clearly, without obscurity or endless cross-reference.

As for the implements used in various auspicious and inauspicious rites—such as zu, dou, gu, and zhi (vessels for sacrifice and banquets), and the regulations for caps, robes, carriages, and attire, the design of banners and the choice of colors, distinctions of rank in palace buildings, the order of host and guest at audiences and feasts, different practices for sacrifice and burial, the forms of suburban and ancestral rites (jiaosi and dìfǎ), and ceremonies for the altars of soil and grain and for mountains and rivers—all of these can be reduced and simplified, with simplicity and thrift as the aim. When ritual is plain, it is easy to carry out; when expenditure is restrained, cost is low. Ease of practice spares those in charge from being worn down by elaborate ceremony; low cost spares those who must supply goods from being pressed for excessive levies.

Bowing, saluting, yielding, and the like, and the demeanor of ascending steps, descending, turning, and pacing in a circle need only suffice to express the meaning of the rite; they need not be minutely elaborate. Each rule should be set out in its own place so that people can look it up and perform it without difficulty.

Today the five ritual categories are mixed together; ornament is excessive and confused, entries branch off in disorder, and the same matters recur in overlapping, tangled form. Even scholars of old who studied these ritual books often found passages they could not straighten out; dispute and rebuttal grew without end, and divergent views multiplied year by year and month by month. Unless one’s learning is exceptionally deep, most people feel lost and exhausted.

It is as if one stood at a crossroads not knowing which way to go, or sank in a morass of doubts, worried and weary. People spend mind and wit poring over contradictory precedents. Sometimes they study for a whole year and still cannot settle the matter. Governing these rites is arduous; when one tries to decide hard cases, there is no firm ground; repeated analysis and endless argument leave one haggard. Even decades of study to old age may not resolve the problems, while time is lost and other duties neglected, and later students are burdened with distress. There seems no end to this; accumulated glosses and clauses can outnumber the original text.

If the mixed rites were now taken apart, like items arranged in order, superfluous material removed, and the main lines and legal force clarified so that everything is as clear as sun and moon and as distinct as the five fixed colors, scholars would be spared much toil and Confucians would quarrel less. Future capable readers, finding such a reorganized ritual book, would regard it as an improvement over how people today approach the Zhou ritual classics.

This resembles the shift to heating stones and giving up blood sacrifice: the obstacles need not be feared; what is regrettable is that people cannot bear to part with old habits in their hearts, so change moves as slowly as pushing a cart away from an old nest.

Those who cling to established rules, hearing such proposals for the first time, are bound to be shocked as if they had never seen the like and to call the advocate a reckless eccentric. In fact, the musical institutions of the Three Kings were not all the same, and the ritual systems of the Five Emperors did not simply follow one another; yet their purpose was the same—to transform customs, settle those who rule, and let the people live in peace under the law. Some practices were kept, others reformed; what was added or taken away was fine so long as the intent was good. Why insist on sailing a boat up a mountain, riding a horse to ford a river, wearing armor in court, or wrapping oneself in heavy furs in midsummer? If one truly believed that ancient ways could never change, then coffins and inner casings would never have replaced burial under piled brush, and clothes would never have replaced going naked.

The gap marked “□” in the original text is probably a lacuna; in context it is understood to mean that the Three Kings’ musical institutions were not all the same.

The orthodox classics (Confucian jing) are the deep, broad source of moral principle; the writings of the hundred masters are like rivers pouring in and making that source still richer. Looked at from above, those writings are like bright stars assisting the sun and moon; looked at from below, they are like woods and thickets adding to the majesty of high mountains. Though their paths differ, all can help people advance in virtue; though their starting points and methods vary, in the end all can aid in transforming society. Therefore the perspicacious grasp the root and govern the branches, take hold of the main thread and see the principles that run through everything.

The ancients lamented how hard it was to find talent, so even across a hundred generations they valued able people as if those who came later were treading close on those who came before. They would not discard a jade that shines in the night merely because the raw stone did not come from Kunlun; nor would they throw away words useful for teaching merely because a book was not written by a sage. Thus rustic verses from the lanes, oaths sworn in camp—even when the wording was rough, the figures simple, and the piece shorter than ten chapters—they were still collected and placed after the canonical proclamations (diangao). Whatever in the masters’ writings served the good shared the same fundamental aim. It is like drawing water to fight a fire: the vessels differ, but the work of quenching is the same; or like acupuncture to cure illness: the techniques differ, but the goal of healing is one.

From Han and Wei onward, writings from every school grew ever more numerous. Some works were as deep in meaning as an abysmal gulf, as rich in language as surging waves; if put into practice, they could respond with auspicious signs from heaven and blessings from earth, bring rare birds and beasts from afar, and settle the central realm. In the near term they could remove the roots of disorder; in the long term they could bring generations of peace and well-being. Yet there was no sage at the time to examine and rank these works, so they could not run like a thoroughbred for a thousand li, nor could the wisdom of the age be appended after the Three Emperors’ Classics (Sanfen). Those stuck in narrow views, bound by shallow learning and minute textual glosses, looked down on novel and divergent opinions as beneath notice; some said “ petty paths are not worth reading,” others that broad learning would confuse the mind.

Some people fail to understand that tiny weights added together can equal a mountain in heaviness, and that dozens or hundreds of things gathered can accumulate into tens of millions. Only when many colors come together can one weave the patterns of a splendid robe; only when many sounds blend can one perform the harmonious music of the Shao and Hu. Some favor shallow, fragmentary fu and prose, and look down on profound, beautiful, rich and broad classics; they treat finely argued discourse on principle as stiff and clumsy, and take empty, flashy cleverness for exquisite charm. Truth and falsehood are reversed; jade and stone are mixed together. They take grand ceremonial music for village tunes, and put dragon-patterned robes on a par with coarse grass clothing. People often act this way—it is truly lamentable.

Someone said: “However much one writes, it is only for showing off words and displaying literary polish; it does not help correct what is wrong or right. Better to use virtue itself as wordless teaching—hence Yan Hui and Min Ziqian are placed first, and Ziyou and Zixia come after. The ordering of the Four Categories in Confucius’s school shows that learning is the root and writing is the branch. Seen this way, composing texts was surplus to begin with. You do not exalt the root yet only value the branch—how can that be right?”

Baopuzi replied: “Virtue belongs to what is outwardly manifest; its quality is relatively easy to see. The subtleties of writing are not easy to recognize. What is easy to see tends to be coarse; what is hard to recognize is more refined. Precisely because virtue is easier to observe, judgment about it is easier to settle; because writing is subtle and hard to distinguish, evaluation often fails to agree. So for now I will not speak of virtue, which is easy to see, but discuss the finesse of writing, which is hard to discern—is that not acceptable?”

Another said: “Virtue is the root, writing is the branch-tip, so the ordering of the Four Categories does not put writing first. On that view, words on paper are no more than dregs left over; writings that circulate are like the grass bundles discarded after a sacrifice. To rank writings high and low—is that not laughable? What forms does writing roughly take—can you tell me?”

Baopuzi replied: “The bamboo fish-trap can be thrown away, but when the fish are not yet caught, one cannot do without the trap. Writing can be set aside, but when the Great Dao has not yet been put into practice, one cannot do without writing. As for the breadth or tightness of literary rhythm, the density or spareness of phrasing and arranging examples in writing…”

As for whether the style of writing is refined or crude, whether phrasing and arrangement of examples feel open or densely packed, whether a work’s lineage and achievement run long or short, and whether implication and citation run deep or shallow—the gaps among such things are enormous. Even comparing the farthest reach of the sky with the space inside a hair’s breadth would not suffice to express how wide the distance is; stacked against one another in rank, they differ so much that the light of sun, moon, and stars could not show how great the contrast is. The Dragon Pool sword and a lead-tipped short spear are inadequate metaphors for sharpness versus dullness; the feather of a wild goose and a heap of gold are inadequate metaphors for light versus heavy.

Some writing is clear and some turbid; levels are uneven, each with its own root endowment. Brightness and dimness are not on the same grade, and strength and weakness each have a different temperament. Yet people in the world, seeing only that someone can hold a brush and mark paper, lump them all together. For that reason Bo Ya long mourned the loss of Zhong Ziqi (his true listener), and the man of Ying, having lost Craftsman Shi—who could wield the axe to shave the white plaster from his nose without harming the flesh—never swung the axe again.

Those who can carve are many, yet Ban and Di are famed for consummate skill; those who can pluck the zither are many, yet Kui and Xiang are known especially for grasping how hard music truly is. A stable may hold a thousand horses, yet a qiji (fine steed) still stands out for far surpassing the herd; beauties may be many, yet Xi Shi and Zheng Dan are still renowned for looks that tower above the rest. This shows that there really are people who far excel the multitude.

Moreover, the relation between literary composition and virtue is as close as ten feet to one zhang—composition cannot be dismissed as a trivial leftover. Heaven displays celestial signs; Tang Yao and Yu Shun win praise; great men shine like tigers and gentlemen show pattern like leopards; the Duke of Zhou and King Wen fixed a sage’s posthumous title with a single character; Confucius exalted the cultural brilliance of Zhou ritual and music—all of this inseparable from “culture” (wen).

The Bagua (Eight Trigrams)—symbols used since antiquity to represent heaven, earth, and the myriad things—were said to derive from the markings on hawks and falcons; the liujia (the sexagenary cycle used in ancient divination and timekeeping) was said to derive from the patterns on the spirit turtle’s shell. Wherever there is pattern and marking, even in humble places, something remains worthy; dog and sheep hides cannot compare.

The root of a thing is not invariably precious, nor is the tip invariably base. Brocade takes plain silk as its ground; pearls and jade lie hidden in clams and stone; clouds and rain gather from fine vapor; great rivers begin from short streams. Thus, though composition may be called a secondary aspect of virtue, it cannot be called a matter of no account.

Someone asks: in what people do today, most fall short of the ancients; the same seems true of writing— is this the fixed law of a declining age, a waning of the times’ vital momentum (qi)?

Baopuzi replied: The doctrines of the various schools of thought, though they arise from different starting points, all stem from the reflections of broadly learned Confucian scholars and are set down by talented writers. Compared with the works of antiquity, they are not necessarily inferior in every respect. Some works are vast in spirit and far-reaching in conception, aligning with the great classics of old: inwardly they open inexhaustible springs of thought, outwardly they leave a continuous stream of influence. The tradition they carry forward is lofty, the principles they unfold are subtle; their transformations of thought are not bound by fixed rules, and their extensions by analogy are not confined to a narrow single path.

Therefore, those who favor only sour or only salty tastes cannot savor rich flavors; those whose capacity for thought is limited cannot grasp the spirit within. The yinglong (legendary dragon) rises slowly, yet with a turn of its head it soars above the clouds; the hanxue horse (legendary steed) moves at a walk, yet seems able to gallop a thousand li in a single breath. Ants marvel that they have no steps yet can fly so high; inferior horses worry that they are far outstripped, not gradually overtaken.

If someone roams only among literary critiques and shuttles only among historical records, yet views extraordinary works with an ordinary mind, measures boundless thought with a narrow gaze, probes what is refined with shallow understanding, and guesses at what is profound with meager insight, then from youth to old age they will still fail to comprehend. Those who appreciate a work will naturally praise it; those who do not understand it will often condemn it. That is human nature. Thus some people call what they do not understand empty and absurd; they may genuinely believe this, not necessarily willfully going against their conscience or harming others.

Moreover, people in the world often especially revere the ancients and look down on their contemporaries. Even when the age has a horse swift as the wind, they still say it cannot match the mount once driven by Zaofu (the famed charioteer of antiquity); even when there is a treasure worth whole cities, they still say it cannot match the uncut jade for which a man of Chu once wept; even when there is a sword so sharp it seems to cut through everything, they still say it cannot match blades cast by Ou Yezi (the renowned swordsmith of the Spring and Autumn period); even when there is medicine that can restore the dead to life, they still say it cannot match remedies compounded by He Shi and Bian Que (famous physicians of old).

Even someone whose talent surpasses that of others is still judged by the world to fall short of what is recorded in ancient books; even writings that benefit the world are still felt to be inferior to works left by earlier generations. That is why Confucius was not honored in his own time, and why Yang Xiong’s Classic of the Supreme Mystery (Taixuan Jing) was mocked and scorned by his contemporaries.

Ordinary people often say, “Today’s mountains are not as high as the mountains of old, today’s seas are not as wide as the seas of old, today’s sun is not as hot as the sun of old, and today’s moon is not as bright as the moon of old.” How then could they admit that a man of talent in the present age is in no way inferior to the decayed bones of antiquity? They value what they have heard about the past and look down on what is before their eyes—this fault is not confined to a single age. The ancients smashed their zithers and cut their strings; one may suppose they had their reasons for doing so.

End of Volume 32 of the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi.

Volume 33: Jian (“Seeing”—title of the essay). The habit of prizing hearsay and slighting what lies before one’s eyes is not confined to a single age. The ancients smashed their zithers and cut their strings; one may suppose they had their reasons for doing so.

End of Volume 32 of the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi.

Outer Chapters of Baopuzi, Volume 33

Outer Chapters of Baopuzi, Volume 33

Through his assessment of the political situation at the end of the Han, Ge Hong criticizes a court in which the foundations of governance had collapsed and custom had declined—a state he regarded as especially severe in his own recent times.

Powerful ministers and eunuchs held the reins of government and manipulated state authority, abandoning the upright path and fostering what was crooked, while harming benevolence and righteousness. They trampled on the worthy and hated the straight-spoken, leaving power in the hands of the dull and ignorant; they formed factions for private gain and promoted the wicked. They squeezed out wealth with insatiable greed, yet would not part with even the smallest sum to aid the upright and poor.

Advancement in office depended entirely on how much money one had; the outcome of lawsuits on how heavy the bribe was. Those in power were high in rank and strong in influence—enough to recommend talent—yet would not speak a word or put forward a single outstanding person of the age. Those they employed were mostly relatives of wives and concubines; those they favored were merely the mediocre, trivial confidants at their side.

They did not take warning from Zang Wenzhong (a minister of Lu in the Spring and Autumn period, mocked for holding office without recommending the worthy), nor did they follow the example of Jie Hu (who in the same era recommended his enemy without letting private resentment interfere). When they distributed stipends and gathered followers, they looked only to those close to them. Thus the worthy might live door to door, yet no one like Zhengyang would fret over a kinsman’s hardship; men of high character might gather in groups, yet none like Baosheng would step forward to recommend them. To suppress the independent and upright while promoting only those who clung to them—this was why Lady Fan (consort of King Zhuang of Chu, who sighed at the failure to employ worthy ministers) covered her mouth in sighs and why Feng Tang (a Han-era worthy who long went unrecognized) lamented for so long.

At that time many held salary without doing the work, currying favor to get by, hiding their own virtue and burying others’ ability. They resented those with merit and contrived to harm them; they disliked the pure and pushed them aside; they feared loyal, outspoken critics and framed them; they detested those who stood apart and cast them out. Those skilled at flattery won honor and protection; the firm and angular were slandered and discarded. It was like raising wolves and jackals while wiping out the qilin and the yu beast, planting thorny trifoliate orange while cutting down fragrant pepper and cassia.

Then the arrogant, unrestrained, rootless drifters were called broad-minded; the harsh, petty, resentful, and vicious were called fair and upright; the clever and sharp-eyed but insincere were called clear in talent and penetrating in understanding; those who wheedled with glib tongues and read the ruler’s mood were called outstanding in talent and elegant in bearing; the rash, proud, and frivolous were called lofty and distinguished.

Those who indulge in wine and sex are praised as having quick wit, spiritual penetration, and a clear, bright mind. People skilled at smooth talk and reading others’ intentions are lauded for superior insight and refined, elegant speech. Those who act rashly and behave with arrogant levity are called towering, outstanding, and extraordinary; the greedy for wine, sex, and base conduct are praised as following their true nature without artificial restraint. Those who crave wealth and seize without end are said to have a broad mind and lofty integrity; those with unkempt hair, slovenly dress, and ill-matched company are extolled as broadly good, universally kind, and loving toward all.

People who violate reason and defend wrong conduct under the names of sages are called followers of Zhuangzi and Laozi; those who ridicule others and despise their elders are said to be free-spirited, open, and elegantly unconventional. Those who abandon principle and agree with whomever they meet are hailed as talents of unmatched excellence; those who rely on the powerful and advance through gifts and connections are praised for adaptability and startling wit. Those who skim documents without reading and sign at random are said to pursue great undertakings and high ambition; those who lean on influential kin and hold posts beyond their ability are compared to the “Four Heroes.” Those who buy reputation and rank with gifts to great houses are praised for scorning wealth and honoring righteousness; those who form cliques, flatter one another, and say one thing while doing another are said to be making friends through letters and learning.

Those who use heterodox arts and pretend to ghosts and spirits are called ones who understand the numinous; those who deceive with crude divination and dress up talk of fortune and disaster are praised as able to foretell the future. Those who boast only of personal bravery on horseback with spear in hand are named outstanding among great generals. Those who patch together hearsay and then echo vulgar opinion are called outstanding talents and great Confucian scholars.

By contrast, those whose conduct is bright and whose integrity is high—whose spirit is clear and whose mind is deep—do not win favor through flattery and do not speak against their conscience. They keep their integrity as if enduring frost and treading snow, and do not lightly go along with others; they hold to the right way and stand firmly on principle, outstanding and self-reliant. Though the wind blows fiercely, their branches do not break; though they fall into hardship, their integrity does not change. When they rise, they speak frankly and correct errors and point out flaws; when they withdraw, they are sincere and upright, seek no private gain, and do what they know must be done. Such people, in turn, are mocked as dull, incapable, and suffering in vain.

Those who rise early and retire late, who after leaving court still brood over state affairs and wear themselves out governing the realm for the nation, are instead labeled narrow-minded, mediocre officials. Seeing this clearly, the wise withdraw from public life; the talented hide their edge and play the fool; those of humble or distant origin seek other paths; those bound by others’ power bend and comply, concealing themselves within the court to preserve their safety.

The intelligent refuse to speak their stratagems; the brave will not display decisive, resolute skill. Loyal and upright men are pushed aside and dismissed, while the wicked and vicious rise to power. Corrupt winds spread and cannot be checked; crooked, false paths open wide and cannot be blocked. Then come successive acts of deceiving the ruler and oppressing the people, and bandits multiply. Eunuchs seize the sovereign’s authority; the Three Excellencies and Nine Ministers die at the hands of worthless eunuchs. Loyal, worthy men of reputation are slandered as “partisans,” imprisoned, seized, and executed; the realm groans in grief and indignation, and the innocent who shut their doors at home still suffer calamity without cause.

When a wisp of smoke first curls inside the palace walls, fierce flames soon burn across the land; when the finest crack first appears, towering waves surge in every direction. Strong ramparts are breached by hordes of robbers; deep, wide moats are crossed as if by a single reed. Elite troops disintegrate at the sight of the enemy; soldiers on campaign turn their weapons and flee. Blades flash through the palace gates; men in alien dress enter the forbidden inner quarters. Millet grows in the ancestral temples and halls; thorns and weeds cover the jade steps. Lofty towers and pavilions become dens for foxes and hares; gate towers and watchtowers turn into paths for tigers and leopards. The eastern hall is reduced to ashes; the people sink into deep disaster. Those who harm the state and harm the people have their crimes recorded in the histories; good historians do not praise them, and bronze and stone inscriptions leave no laudatory names. Why? Because they lost the hearts of the people.

Baopuzi said: The ills of the Wu kingdom in its final days, though separated by years from the ills of another age, were very much alike. People knew clearly where the former dynasty had gone wrong in that regard, yet could not in the present change course; they saw the lesson of ruin and chaos not far before their eyes, yet still walked the old road where the overturned cart had passed. They often watched branches on a tree fight one another, yet forgot that sharing one body brings the same kind of harm; they mocked lice living at ease, yet did not see that though the matter differs, the calamity is the same; they saw boats that raced to cross the river sink, yet did not grasp that though the road differs, drowning is no different.

I was born in the Jin dynasty and did not with my own eyes see the last days of Wu. My teacher Master Zheng knew that history in great detail and often warned me: “The failings of Wu’s late period were especially severe. The worthy were not employed; the foul and base filled the offices. The bonds that had long held the court together slackened, and the net of law had many gaps. When choosing talent, those who paid more came first; when appointing officials, those with strong factions were favored. Without money or influence, one could go a whole year without hope of advancement. People of upright character and pure conduct, though they held talent in their breasts, were suppressed and buried; the rich and powerful rose step by step and took office. The ruler above was muddled; the ministers below deceived. Without a faction one could not gain power; without scrambling one could not be promoted. The habit of betraying public duty grew daily, and the straight path was ruined.

Then birds like the quail could ride strong wind and soar high; rotting boats could race fast on a swift current; mandarin ducks and phoenixes folded their wings and were trapped in thorn thickets; great ships with high prows lay stuck in shallow, foul pools and could not advance. Those who ran the court, assisted the ruler, and governed the people were none other than the empress dowager’s intimates or flatterers. In court they did not serve with full loyalty or repair faults and fill gaps; when they withdrew they did not know how to hear lawsuits. In speech their mouths seemed to pour frost-clear, upright words; in deed they were muddier than sludge. They did not fear the reproach of holding a salary without work, nor dread the danger of bringing disaster on themselves. They used slander and praise as tools for profit, and power to grant favor or inflict harm, in place of hard farming to amass wealth.

Their chariots and dress shone bright enough to reflect a person’s image; their mansions towered so high that flocks of crows settled on them. A single shout from them was swifter than thunder; bestowing fortune or sending calamity was faster than ghosts and spirits. Their power and profit could overpower a state’s lord; their hoarded wealth exceeded the public treasury. When they went out, splendid guards followed; when they returned home, they sported in jade-trimmed finery.”

With a single shout their authority surpasses thunder; the fortune or disaster they bring arrives faster than the spirits themselves. Their power and wealth overwhelm regional lords and officialdom: when they go out, splendid processions and vast retinues follow; when they enter, they revel in halls carved and painted with fine ornament. Household servants swarm like an army; behind closed gates their residence becomes a marketplace. Cattle and sheep cover hills and hollows; fields and ponds stretch for a thousand li.

They parade the frugality of Zhonghan Ziqi and borrow the reputation of Zhao Wenzi, yet inwardly they crave wealth like Tao Kan or Xin Xin, while in conduct they resemble the Marquis of Anchang, Dong Xian, or Deng Tong in their corruption. When guests arrive, they refuse a generous meal; when scholars go hungry, they will not give a single sheng or he of grain. Yet gold and jade fill their halls, singing girls and concubines pack their chambers, merchant ships number in the hundreds, and grain rots in heaps. Their gardens rival the imperial Shanglin Park; their mansions usurp the scale of the Taiji Hall. Fine wine and meat abound—even dogs and horses cannot finish it; treasures overflow the storehouses.

They are harsh toward others and lavish toward themselves. Some have never read a clause of the law, yet usurp the post of Minister of Justice (Dali); they know nothing of investigation and trial, yet hold positions at the heart of government. They cannot name the books of the Five Classics, yet draw salaries as Confucian officials; they are unskilled in documents and administration, yet occupy posts for authorship and record. Their writing is mediocre, yet they enjoy fame for literary judgment; they cower and shrink without dignity, yet are chosen to draft memorials and impeach officials. They cannot distinguish talent from mediocrity, yet are entrusted to run personnel evaluation and selection; they know nothing of deployment and battle order, yet sit beneath the grand canopy with ostentatious display. Generals who have repeatedly retreated in disgrace are still listed as vanguard with honored titles; people who cannot tell beans from wheat serve as advisers at the emperor’s side.

They are like fish in nature draped with dragon patterns—similar in appearance, utterly different in essence: proud in water, terrified at the sight of an otter. Even if threatened with axe and halberd punishment or tempted with wealth enough to topple a city, they cannot make a dull-lead blade fell rhinoceroses or fierce beasts, nor drive a lame, worthless horse to catch a galloping steed. This is not because they do not fear severe punishment or disdain rich reward, but because innate capacity falls short—it cannot be forced.

If one expects such people to harmonize and govern all affairs of state and bear heavy responsibilities, it is like placing a weight of ten thousand jun on a small boat, or trying to obtain a thousand zhong of grain from a measure of one sheng and one he; like tying up a straw dog used in sacrifice yet demanding it hunt like a hound; or raising chickens and ducks while expecting them to strike prey like eagles. That they cannot measure up is obvious. The Lord of Wu did not reflect on this, nor did he daily stay alert; instead he entrusted great tasks to men skilled in flattery and mediocrity. The realm’s peril was like a bow already fully drawn; omens of ruin were plain to see—yet he felt as secure as a mountain and imagined he could look up to the flourishing age of Tang Yao and Yu Shun.

His eyes were spent on dazzling splendor and did not examine gain and loss in government; his ears were lost in licentious music and did not distinguish right from wrong in his ministers’ words. Grain and cloth were wasted on what was not urgently needed and not used to relieve soldiers who were cold and hungry. His mind was drunk on the speech of those who pleased him at close hand and did not ponder the great principle of the realm’s survival or destruction. This was to treat lightly the root of the state’s rise and fall and to neglect the heavy charge of the ancestral temples and altars of soil and grain.

Lord Zheng also praised his teacher, Master Zuo. Master Zuo lived in seclusion on Mount Tianzhu, sought neither salary nor profit, and did not associate with feudal lords. Yet in his heart he longed for peace under Heaven and secretly grieved for his homeland. Sitting in a hut of thatch, he sighed deeply and said to his disciples: “The glory of Han must decline; the fortune of yellow essence is about to rise (yellow essence here denotes the qi of a new dynasty). A new lord will inherit the pivot of Heaven and Earth and turn the imperial aura back from the Queshou region (Taiwei, Queshou, and Zigai are astral and dynastic terms tied to imperial fortune). He will order all under Heaven and make the eastern lands a place of settled peace. Gentle favor will reach the four quarters; deep grace will moisten the realm. Envoys from afar will come in succession, and tribute will fill the court. The state will be vast and lofty; its virtue will reach Heaven and Earth.

“Once the realm is at peace, holding to established laws and governing by continuity is easy. Yet now the five-string lute is silent and there is no song of the southern wind (the five strings and southern wind stand for an age of good order). The ruler cannot rest in tranquil wuwei (non-action); the people hear no songs praising security. The flying dragon soars in the sky but will not alight; the hidden horned dragon coils in the deep but does not leap up. Qilin and white tiger hide in the gloom; the crimson bud has sprouted but not yet opened.”

When yin and yang fall out of balance, cold and warm seasons come at the wrong times; the seven luminaries (sun, moon, and the five planets used in ancient astronomy to read omens) show ill signs, and mountains and rivers seem to shift. In the hidden-dragon month of deep winter (the tenth lunar month), thunder rolls; in the height of bright summer, frost falls and cuts down all living things. Sun and moon lose their harmonizing light; sweet springs no longer flow. Battles rage in the countryside, and crops fail to ripen. Is this due to some other cause? In truth it is because the Four Evildoers were not removed and the Eight Worthies were not employed; those in power did not use the worthy, while the worthy were not given office.

Yet some people aim high and are broad in spirit. They wear coarse cloth but carry jade-like talent in their hearts; they keep to stillness and purify their minds, desire nothing from outward things, and hide their gifts without display. Once they grasp life’s meaning, they grow indifferent to the world. What goes against ritual they will not do; when the time is wrong they will not take office. Though hard pressed they are not troubled; though in straits they do not regret. They follow Heaven’s order, rest in fate, and treat honor and disgrace as one. When they enter service they show no delight; when they withdraw they show no grief. Such people might willingly live out their days in a broken hut in obscurity—how would they rely on boasting and self-promotion to advance, or trade priceless treasure to haggle with false jade?

The teachings of Confucius and Mozi were once rejected by the age; Mencius and Yang Xiong also met with hardship. Worthy people who miss their time—this has happened since antiquity. Without Li Zhu, black and white are confused; without talents like Guan Zhong and Yan Ying, thoroughbreds are mixed with nags. Common stone is piled in a golden coffer while fine jade is cast into ditches; when Craftsman Shi is gone, people no longer know good timber; when Ziyu (the expert in recognizing wood) suddenly disappears, no one can tell quality apart. This is truly lamentable.

I was born at the wrong time, neither early nor late, and saw Wu’s territory about to become Jin’s domain and the people of the south about to become subjects of the north. Those words seemed still in the ear when the Sun house had already perished and the funeral procession was on its way. Baopu zi heard this and said: “What you two have said can serve as a warning for later ages. I record it in this chapter so those who come after will know that Wu’s loss of the state was not a calamity sent down from Heaven. If one always glosses over a state’s faults and will not criticize even in small matters, then Dong Shu (the historian famed for recording truthfully) would not be worth praising, and would not Jia Yi’s ‘Disquisition on Qin’ be laughed at instead?”

Volume 34 of the Baopuzi Waipian (Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity) is complete. Collation note: the character read as shou (to guard/hold) originally read zi (character/word) in the base text; it was corrected according to the collated edition.

Volume 35 of the Baopuzi Waipian: Shouji (Guarding the Lean Land).

Baopuzi said: I had a friend who styled himself “Master of Hidden Dwelling.” He admired the ancients’ bearing of choosing to live on poor soil rather than compete with others, and selected barren land on which to build his home. He devoted himself to literary study and writing but set farming aside; harvests failed year after year, and hunger often showed on his face.

Someone reproached him, saying: “Only when people have enough grain can they afford to observe ritual and propriety; only when goods are plentiful can they widely bestow kindness. Lofty aims must rest on a life with surplus; frugality often comes from want. That is why poets praise households with ten thousand zhong of grain, and why the ancient Eight Affairs of governance put food and wealth first. Working the fields oneself is the foundation of achievement; plowing side by side with others can also yield the joy of not changing one’s resolve.

“A person of talent and will living in the world, when advancing, should soar like wild geese or luan birds; when withdrawing, should manage affairs as skillfully as Tao Zhu Gong or Bai Gui. In office one should accomplish hegemonic or kingly work; at home one should amass wealth like a man of a thousand jin. Thus the ancients always chose fertile land for profit, labored in the fields, sowed thick stands of beans, planted lush vegetables, and harvested wheat and black millet by the myriad granaries, filling storehouses to the brim. Going out, chariots and horses followed in train for hunting and feasting; at home they enjoyed noble stipends.

“Master, you live here: in great drought, dust flies in the valleys; in long rains, floods spread over the hills. In the fields there is no ripe grain; in the waters no crops with full ears. The granary is empty and the kitchen lacks fuel. Yet you calmly hold to the mind of waiting for the right moment, take it lightly, and do not plan to leave or take office. I fear you will starve on Mount Shouyang like Boyi and Shuqi of late Shang, and soon fall into the straits of Mount Dan. We worry for you—how can you still be so unconcerned?

“To see the moment and not act is not wisdom; to cling to one’s old place and refuse to move is merely ordinary habit. Does one who is steeped in the smell of salted fish forget the scent of orchids, or does extreme folly change one’s nature? Master, why have you not awakened after so long? I am truly puzzled and do not understand your thinking. Official robes and caps cannot ward off blades and arrows; statutes and proclamations cannot relieve hunger and cold.”

Why not look to the fertile fields beyond the city walls, take up farming yourself as solid, practical work, set aside the remote and useless Six Arts (Rites, Music, Archery, Charioteering, Calligraphy, and Mathematics), and store grain to relieve the poor?

The Master of Hidden Dwelling replied: You cannot ask a deaf person to tell refined music from vulgar tunes; you cannot blame a blind person for failing to distinguish cinnabar from lacquer; a frog at the bottom of a well cannot discuss the ocean with you; and a narrow, worldly person is not someone to whom one should expound the classics. If you know only the small merit of an old farmer’s tillage and do not grasp the great harm of shallow learning and closed-mindedness, it is like picking up grains of sand while throwing away the Marquis of Sui’s pearl and the He-Shi jade; it is like facing a candle flame while turning your back on the sun.

People’s tastes and aims cannot be treated as all alike; what one chooses or rejects cannot be measured by replacing another person’s standard with one’s own. Someone who wishes to climb Langfeng or scale Mount Song and Mount Hua will not stop at a little hillock; someone whose heart is set on visiting the southern sea and sailing the great ocean has no leisure to drift in a pond. Thus one who listens intently to the Nine Shao will not find the folk music of Ba pleasing; one who prepares the full sacrifice of ox, sheep, and pig and a lavish feast for guests will not find bitter greens and smartweed delicious.

The great peng soars toward the crimson sky, the heights, and the sea, while the wagtail flutters contentedly among tangled weeds and brush—they differ in height, yet each uses its wings as it can. Human life and insight also have their short and long spans: for a mushroom that knows only dusk and dawn, a month is already a long age, and it does not understand change on a greater scale; the mayfly lives out its brief day, while the wild mist does not vanish until the sixth month; minnows and crucian carp thrash and show their scales in shallow water, while the divine dragon hides in unfathomable depths. Aims and horizons differ—how can they be forced into one mold?

Though I can scarcely fill myself with plain rice and vegetables, I am already content with a rich man’s banquet. Liezi did not, because he was poor, covet the salary of Yangli in Zheng; Zeng Shen did not, because he was destitute, trade his integrity for wealth in Jin or Chu. To strive to preserve subtle doctrine when the classics are on the verge of being lost is to carry on the far-reaching work of the Duke of Zhou and Confucius; to chase profit single-mindedly is to be counted among Mencius’s wrongdoers.