《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 5

The crux of the matter comes down to a single point: the slightest flaw in one’s words or in what one treats as essential can stain one’s reputation like a blemish on white jade. I do not think the title “second only to the sages” (yasheng)—someone ranked just below the sages—can be granted lightly. A “second-to-sage” must be someone whose talent and virtue, though not as complete as those of the Duke of Zhou or Confucius, already possess their general outline, and who stands alone in his age with a reputation that towers over the world, so that almost no one else can be placed alongside the Duke of Zhou and Confucius. How could someone like Lin Zong ever reach that rank?

Lin Zong (Guo Tai of the Eastern Han, courtesy name Lin Zong) had outstanding talent and clear insight. By ordinary people’s reckoning, he was indeed often pushed to a very high place; in reality, he had not risen to that level. He was quick and eloquent, carried himself with distinction, and knew how to seize opportunities to display himself; moreover, busybodies helped build him up and spread his name, so his fame reached far and wide. In chaotic times, people admired his reputation and took him as a standard; those who heard reports without checking the facts also praised him vigorously.

When he casually praised someone, that person’s standing became as weighty as a thousand pieces of gold; wherever he went, both the wise and the foolish were stirred into excitement. People compared his arrival to the gathering of dragon and phoenix and the appearance of auspicious signs. When he spoke, the lingering tone seemed to become a model; when he stepped, the traces he left were copied. He could stir hearts like a skilled drummer, and his prestige even seemed to vie with the sun and moon.

Lin Zong was not truly a recluse. When he wished to enter office, the realm was already in turmoil; when he wished to withdraw, he found brooding unbearable; when he wanted to act, he feared disaster; if he held firm and did nothing, that was not what he could settle into. Thus he wavered between advance and retreat, sometimes prominent, sometimes in straits. The world chased only his outward fame and did not examine his real conduct; they admired his appearance and did not grasp his inner spirit. Even when rain soaked him and his headcloth was ruined, people still thought he had handled it well and saw no fault in it. There are many such cases. Worldly people pursued reputation to such an extreme that even when he fell short, no one dared say so.

Lin Zong was broadly learned and knew how to judge character; he was not without discernment. Yet he failed to escape the judgment that his fame exceeded his substance, and he did not know his own measure clearly enough.

Someone urged him to enter government service and pursue an official career. Lin Zong replied: “By day I observe affairs among people; by night I look up at the heavens. A regime that Heaven has already decided to abandon cannot be propped up. The times now match the ‘Ming Yi’ image in the Book of Changes—light injured, the age dim—and we are in a phase when action is ill advised. This is a time to hesitate, watch, and stay hidden, not a moment to step forward and display one’s talents. Even on level ground one may fear being swallowed by a surging sea; I am afraid I would be like a fish in the water. How much less should one brave fierce winds and ride rushing waves? Better to dwell in mountain caves and nourish the spirit, take Peng Zu and Laozi as one’s delight, and pass the days in ease—simply living out this life in peace.”

Seen in this light, Lin Zong knew the Han could no longer be saved—but that was not because his wisdom was exceptionally sharp or his insight unusually penetrating. By rights he should have climbed the heights around Mount Shang and the Luo, or drifted in boats on the Five Lakes; he should have followed Chaofu in his lofty seclusion or sought out the fisherman roaming the Canglang waters. If he could not join the mountain recluses or live apart from the crowd, he ought at least to hide in deep obscurity, draw in his edge, and hold his tongue.

Yet he set out from the west and hurried east, never pausing on the road long enough to warm his mat, intent on imitating the way Confucius and Mozi traveled from place to place. Even sages who grieved for the world and toured the realm still drew mockery from those who had withdrawn. Lin Zong’s ability did not match the times, and his stature was not outstanding: in office he could neither steady the ruler nor govern the people, nor shift customs and reform the age; in retirement he could neither write lasting works nor carry forward the Six Arts. There was something self-displaying in his conduct, and it already went too far. Though he won great renown and many advantages, in the end advancement did him no good for order and chaos in the world, and withdrawal left no deeds worth passing down.

He rushed through a tumbling age, watching order collapse and manners decay, and in the end he differed little from ordinary people. For no good reason he placed himself in the midst of storms and bustled through the dusty world. He traveled to and from the capital, cultivated ties with the powerful; his carriage wheels wore thin and his whip frayed, yet he still had no rest—so fame spread swiftly, and people from Qin and the northern frontier alike admired and followed him.

The alleys were packed with the ruts of splendid carriages coming and going; the halls were filled with guests wearing the red cords and seals of office. Light carriages rose and fell in the ceaseless rush of social calls and receptions, and the host sometimes had not even time to slip his shoes on properly before hurrying out to welcome callers. He traveled through the capital, cultivated ties with the powerful, and kept horses and servants on the run until he scarcely had a moment to sit at ease. His fame grew day by day, and people from Qin and the northern frontier alike came to admire and attach themselves to him. Carriages choked the lanes and lined the streets without a break; the halls were thronged with guests.

This was truly the manner of a wandering knight-errant type, and it did not match the standard of a reclusive scholar. Even in an age of clear and orderly government, such a person could not be counted among the lofty recluses or listed among the outstanding figures who withdraw to mountains and forests. If this kind of restless activity occurred in a time of danger and disorder, what would there be to praise in it? Who could deny that he failed to understand how the world shifts between order and chaos, and could not see clearly what his own talent and virtue actually amounted to? He turned away in vain from the path of quiet simplicity and detachment, and in the end accomplished nothing of real use; that he met with no disaster was merely his good luck.

To describe this conduct as worry for the times and concern for the state, as an wish to emulate the “uncrowned king” (a man with kingly virtue who never took the throne), is like a lame man chasing a fine steed, a crested finch pursuing a wild swan, the tiny spirit Jiaoming racing the great peng bird in the clouds, or a shrew-mouse and a weasel comparing themselves to a mammoth—utterly mismatched.

Thus Linzong may be said to have talent that shone conspicuously in the world, yet lacked the character to keep to his proper place. He saw through affairs with an clarity that seemed to grasp almost everything, perhaps enough to bear heavy responsibility; yet outward show flourished while inner substance was not filled out. He could not suppress restlessness, and word and deed contradicted each other: he spoke of retiring to quiet, yet in his heart longed for glory, rank, and profit. He had not yet reached the ease of birds roosting in the mysterious garden (Xuanpu) or the deep concealment of numinous beings in the nine abysses (Jiuyuan). “To display and sell oneself”—to boast and actively market oneself—is an unseemly posture for a gentleman or a woman alike. Knowing it was wrong, he still acted thus and others followed his example; how could he be said to possess the capacity that approaches that of a sage?

Although some called him skilled at judging men, such penetrating discernment of people was difficult even for Tang Yao and Yu Shun, and Confucius once found it hard as well. Even one as bright as the sun and moon, who could trace events to their beginnings and foresee their final outcomes, would still sometimes err and could not always judge correctly. How much more so when Linzong’s insight was no brighter than the glow of a small candle, seeing only half of gain and loss—yet even that was already no small thing.

Therefore, fame is often valued in one's own lifetime, while praise frequently spreads widely only after death. When someone has strengths, the world joins in acclaiming them; when they have weaknesses, few notice. Although some can discover obscure talent among the people and point out unpolished jade in the countryside, they may still fail to recommend loyal and resolute individuals to the court so that they might defend the borders, relieve crises, or thwart conspiracies and strife. Bao Shuya once recommended Guan Zhong; Yan Ying also recommended Rang Ju—such were their examples.

Lin Zong (Guo Tai, a celebrated scholar of the Eastern Han) enjoyed great renown at court and was held in high esteem in his day. Powerful ministers and high officials all admired him; he had the ability to elevate talent, and his words were enough to secure positions for those who had been held back. Yet he merely convalesced in the capital region and gathered guests—he did not recommend talent to help the state correct a perilous situation. To recognize people but refuse to recommend them is no different from knowing that fertile soil suits planting and straight timber suits beams and pillars, yet never sowing seed or felling trees. How then could hunger and homelessness be remedied?

Lin Zong's refusal to accept official recommendation was indeed proof of lofty integrity; his constant activity truly stemmed from concern for the times. Master Ji also said: "While Lin Zong lived, his example was followed by a generation; after death, his fine reputation endured. Learned scholars and outstanding talent found no fault with him—only I alone pointed out his shortcomings. Will I not be mocked by posterity?"

Bao Puzi said: "Why worry so? If my words are truly sound, leave them for later generations of discerning people to judge; if those who agree are few, what is there to fear? Moreover, worthy men of earlier ages often criticized Lin Zong—it was only that the emperor excessively praised him. Therefore, Grand Tutor Zhuge… will he be mocked by posterity?"

Ge Hong said: Why is this so? If my words are indeed trustworthy, they should be left for perceptive people of later ages to judge—why worry that few agree in the present? Moreover, many worthy men of earlier times also criticized Guo Linzong; only the emperor’s praise of him went too far.

Grand Tutor Zhuge Ke (style name Yuanxun) also said: “When Guo Linzong lived in seclusion he did not truly withdraw from the world; when he entered office he brought no real benefit to the times. In fact he only sought reputation and built up his renown. He treated street gossip as brilliant debate, and mocking the court and criticizing policy as lofty purity. Yet people of the day greatly admired him, much as people in the past fawned over Guo Jie and Yuan She. Later, those who chased fame did not test him against the classics of the sage-kings or measure him by the conduct of ancient worthies—they were merely dazzled by his fine name and vied to take him as a model. Those who imitated him feared falling behind; talk of him was everywhere. Ordinary people still failed to see through it—how could the young and ignorant see clearly?”

Yin Boxu, prefect of Lingling, was also a man of outstanding talent and solid judgment. He said: “Guo Linzong befriended generals and ministers, traveled about, and used personal prestige to sway the crowd so that even the court was pulled by praise and blame attached to him. Those he favored rose swiftly in standing; their price and bearing changed with it. Those he disliked were struck down and sank; gentlemen would not associate with them.”

Ge Hong added that Guo Linzong, meeting a chaotic age, hid away, reined in his talent, and kept a low profile—which in itself was hardly lofty. The gentleman who practices the Way does so to set the ruler straight and correct custom. At that time the ruler could not be set straight, nor could society be corrected. Guo Linzong moved among villages, talking and debating, yet he did not remedy the decay of the age or help the people’s distress.

The late Palace Secretary Zhou Sheng Gongyuan, an eminent Conf scholar, also said: “Serving in a peaceful age to help govern is called rejoicing in the Way; meeting a chaotic age and trying to save it is called grieving for the Way; when chaos cannot be saved and one withdraws, that is called keeping to the Way. Yu Shun rejoiced in the Way; Confucius grieved for it; the Viscount of Wei kept to it. When the Han house was about to collapse, people busied themselves with socializing and courtesies. Guo Linzong should have burned with loyal grief and quietly united like-minded gentlemen to correct the ills of the time; instead he rushed to lead among famous men—which did not fit saving the world.”

At that time, even though eunuchs held power, they were no more than beasts lodging among humans; Chen Fan, Dou Wu, and others, though high in office, all respected Guo Linzong, trusted his opinions, and let him rank people. Given that, could he not have hoped to help rescue crisis and change custom? Yet Guo Linzong neither recommended capable people nor made the slightest practical contribution; he withdrew and refused office. Such a man was compared to Chaofu and Xu You; one who neglected affairs and received guests at home was compared to the Duke of Zhou; one who gathered disciples and evaded corvée was compared to Confucius; one who abandoned kin to attach to the powerful was compared to Ziyou and Zixia. Thus the world confused name with reality, and the age grew more confused.

If one says Guo Linzong did not know these problems, he cannot be called wise; if one says he knew yet did not change his ways, he cannot be said to grieve for the Way. In the past, four bold men looked like the Duke of Zhou but could not do what the Duke of Zhou did; now Guo Linzong looks like Confucius but cannot become Confucius.

Then the questioner sighed and said: “So Guo Linzong was only someone who avoided chaos—not a lofty man who could fully preserve the pure integrity of a true recluse.”

Volume 46 of the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi ends here.

Volume 47 of the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi is titled “Tan Mi” (A Critique of Mi Heng).

Baopuzi said: In the late Eastern Han there was a man named Mi Heng, only twenty-three years old. Kong Wenju (Kong Rong, courtesy name Wenju) was already past fifty, held one of the Nine Ministers’ posts, and was outstanding in learning and literary skill; from youth he had enjoyed a fine reputation, and his fame and rank were both high. Yet he still befriended Mi Heng, who was a commoner, and even submitted a memorial to the throne recommending him.

Baopu zi records: In the late Han dynasty there was a man named Mi Heng, twenty-three years old. Kong Rong was past fifty, held one of the Nine Ministers’ ranks, and was outstanding in learning and literary skill; he had enjoyed renown from youth, with high standing and reputation, yet he still befriended the common-born Mi Heng and even submitted a memorial to the Han court recommending him, arguing that he ought to enter office straightaway as a Palace Gentleman. Kong Rong praised Mi Heng in these terms: “Lofty mountains and peaks give birth to numinous powers; extraordinary men appear one after another. Mi Heng needs only one look at something to recite it on the spot; what his ears happen to hear, he does not forget. His innate nature accorded with the Dao; his thinking seemed aided by a spirit.” Such was Kong Rong’s admiration for him.

Mi Heng moved in society around the capital region. From dukes and ministers to famous scholars and everyone else, he never used anyone’s official title when he spoke to them; he always called them by personal name, saying “Ah So-and-so,” or sometimes by surname as “So-and-so the lad.” He called Kong Rong “the elder lad” and Yang Xiu “the younger lad”; he felt Xun Yu was barely tolerable as a conversational partner. As for the rest, in his eyes they were like wooden puppets and clay figures—shaped like human beings but without any living breath, nothing more than wine jars and rice sacks.

Once, when the officials were gathered in assembly, Mi Heng was among them. He suddenly furrowed his brow, looked wretched, and sighed with deep feeling. Someone mocked him: “Heroes are assembled together—a thing to rejoice in. What is there to lament?” Mi Heng looked around at the company and replied: “When one is among this heap of corpses and this row of coffins, how could a humane person not grieve?”

Cao Cao once gnashed his teeth in hatred and wanted to kill Mi Heng; but Mi Heng had not clearly committed a capital crime under the law, and Cao Cao also feared the reputation of having slain a Confucian scholar, so he demoted him to the post of drum-beater in the music office. Mi Heng showed not the slightest regret or shame. He tied the drumsticks to a pillar, pressed close to the drum, and struck it, producing a distinctive sound while his beard and sleeves swung with the motion. Listeners could hardly believe a human being was performing. His talk grew fiercer still, utterly without restraint. Later he fled and went to serve Jingzhou’s governor Liu Biao.

Liu Biao wished to write to Sun Quan and discuss an expedition against Cao Cao. At that time Sun Quan had fully secured the Jiangdong region and commanded a million troops; Liu Biao wanted to form with him an alliance like lip and teeth, jointly resisting the power of the Central Plains. Liu Biao had his literary men draft the document on the spot. The crowd racked their brains and could not produce it, so they handed the draft to Mi Heng to read. After reading it, Mi Heng said: “If all you want is for Sun Quan’s men to hold a blade to your neck while they read this letter, then this piece of writing will do.”

If Zhang Zibuo (Zhang Zhao) had seen this way of doing things, he would surely have felt deeply shamed. He immediately threw the paper to the ground, his face showing displeasure, and asked Mi Heng: “Isn’t this paper meant for weeding the fields? What a waste.” He then asked for paper and brush and wrote it out again. The guests had produced more than ten pieces; Mi Heng read through them once and memorized them all. When he had finished writing, he handed the text back to Zhang Zibuo. Zhang Zibuo in turn returned the piece to the host, and someone kept the original draft for comparison. Mi Heng’s version turned out to be letter-perfect—not a single character wrong—and everyone was greatly astonished. Zhang Zibuo then asked Mi Heng to write another piece; Mi Heng wrote without pause and soon finished. Zhang Zibuo thought it excellent and used it. Mi Heng grew even prouder, and there was no one in the whole province who did not dislike and resent him. Zhang Zibuo gradually found him unbearable and wanted to kill him.

Someone advised Zhang Zibuo: “Lord Cao, though known for severity, still tolerated Mi Heng. He is young and already has some reputation; if you killed him outright, men seeking office who travel the realm might never dare come again to Jing and Chu.” Zhang Zibuo therefore sent Mi Heng away. Mi Heng went to Xiakou and attached himself to the general Huang Zu, who received him with the courtesy due a distinguished guest. Huang Zu’s eldest son Huang She traveled with Mi Heng. Passing a tomb, the two read the inscription on the stele and moved on. After a long while Huang She said: “The inscription we just saw was very well written; it’s a pity we didn’t copy it down.” Mi Heng said: “You only remember its general sense; I remembered it after one reading.” He then recited it from memory. At the end of the inscription one character’s right half was missing and could not be made out. Mi Heng wrote the left half and said: “I guess the missing part should be such-and-such a character, though I’m afraid it may not be quite right.” Huang She checked and found it correct.

Though Mi Heng’s words and conduct were contemptuous of others, he secretly cared for his own name and longed for success. Thus even perched high in a grove of phoenix trees, he could not long hide among the wormwood. Yet he lacked sufficient discipline in cultivating himself and guarding his speech; criticized, he still would not mend his ways. One word from his mouth drew dislike; one move brought disaster. With talent no greater than this, how could he live at ease in the world and preserve his life? Like the cry of an owl or the howl of a fox—no one finds it pleasing; if the voice and nature do not change, what good is it to move elsewhere? Xuchang was a gathering place for talent, and Kong Rong played host there, treating Mi Heng with every consideration; even there he could not settle, and his end was easy to foresee.

Like a disease that is already beyond cure, even master physicians such as Yu Fu and Bian Que can do nothing; like rotten timber and lumps of lead, even clever craftsmen such as Lu Ban and the famed swordsmith Ou Yezi cannot shape them into anything useful. Yet he still rushed about and threw in his lot with people in the Jing-Chu region, until he brought upon himself the greatest disaster. That is exactly what comes of blindness and folly. He wanted to gain what he wanted but lacked the power to gain it—it was not that he already had the means and refused to use them. Alas, can men of talent fail to take warning from this?

Master Ji said: “What I find puzzling is the empty fame of Heng; what you speak of is the real harm of Heng. How could I fail to take your teaching as my daily rule—lay aside the staff and measure things by a middle standard instead?”

End of Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, scroll 47.

Baopuzi, Outer Chapters, scroll 48: “Questioning Bao.”

Bao Shengjing loved books such as the Laozi and Zhuangzi, and in studying Bao Bian’s discourse he held that ancient times without rulers were better than present society. He wrote in his treatise:

Confucians say: “Heaven established rulers for the needs of the people—could Heaven have repeatedly admonished us and truly wished it so?” In fact, when the strong bully the weak, the weak submit; when the clever deceive the foolish, the foolish serve them. The weak obey the strong, and thus the relationship of ruler and subject arises; the people, few and weak, are dominated by the clever, and thus command and rule take shape. Seen this way, submission, subordination, and servitude all result from contests of strength and comparisons of wit—Heaven was never involved from the start.

When heaven and earth were still undifferentiated chaos, what was prized was having no names or forms; when each thing found its place, all felt joy. Stripping cinnamon bark and carving lacquer work is not what trees desire; plucking the bustard’s feathers and tearing the kingfisher’s plumage is not what birds desire; putting bit and bridle on horses and making them hold the mouthpiece is not horses’ nature; yoking oxen and loading them to pull carts is not what oxen delight in. Once deceit and cunning arise, they inevitably go against innate nature, harm the root of life, only to adorn useless things. Capturing flying birds for people to gaze at, piercing noses that were whole and binding feet that could run free—all of this violates the principle that the myriad things grow together and each fulfills its nature. Using the people in service to supply the government, so that the noble enjoy thick stipends and ease while the common people suffer hardship, follows the same pattern.

To be reborn after death may be joy beyond compare, yet it is still not as good as never having died in the first place. Declining rank and refusing salary to win empty fame is not as good as never having had rank or salary at all. When the realm is in turmoil, loyalty and righteousness stand out; when kin are not harmonious, filial piety and kindness become conspicuous.

In deepest antiquity there were neither rulers nor subjects. People dug wells for water and tilled fields for food; when the sun rose they worked, and when it set they rested.

If people can keep their hearts broad and free from being dragged about by external things, resting in themselves at ease—neither scrambling for fame and profit nor scheming for gain—then there is nothing to call glory or shame. In the mountains there are no roads; in marshes there are no boats or bridges. Rivers and valleys lie apart from one another, and people do not gather in crowds, so there is no mutual encroachment or attack. Then no one takes nests from high places or fishes in deep water; phoenixes and luan birds rest at ease in the courtyard, and dragons swim in schools in the garden pool. A person can walk past a starving tiger or pick up a poisonous snake without harm. When crossing marshes, gulls do not startle and fly away; when entering the woods, foxes and hares are not frightened.

When power and profit do not swell and the mind no longer contends for blessing and rank, aggression does not arise. Then there is no need for weapons, nor for building fortified cities. The myriad things merge into one body, not disturbing one another, all following the Great Dao together. Epidemics no longer spread; people all enjoy long life and die a natural death. Within, the heart stays pure and does not stir up crafty calculation; eating their food, they are content and glad, and when full they wander and rest at leisure. Their speech does not seek ornament, and their conduct needs no artificial polish. How then could there be amassing wealth or plundering the people? How could harsh punishments and hidden traps be used to harm them?

Only when the age declined toward its end did people gradually act through cleverness, and virtue decayed with it. Rank and precedence were fixed, ritual grew elaborate, and rise and fall, advance and retreat, increase and decrease all followed intricate rules. People adorned splendid ceremonial robes and built towers reaching into the clouds, painting beams and pillars in red and green. To hunt for treasure they even overturned high mountains and dove into deep pools for pearls; jade piled like forests could not satisfy shifting desire, and gold heaped like mountains could not fill enormous waste. They sank into reckless indulgence, turned from the original root of the myriad things, drifted ever farther from the lofty Dao, and departed ever more deeply from plain simplicity.

When worthiness is exalted, the people race after reputation; when goods are prized, thieves appear. When desirable things come into view, the upright heart is disturbed; when power and profit stand before the eyes, the path of seizure opens. People fashioned sharp, pointed tools, deepening the calamity of mutual harm. Crossbows had to be stronger, armor thicker, blades keener, and mail heavier—yet without insult and violence, all of these could have been set aside.

Ge Hong (style name Baopuzi) raised a question: it is said that when Heaven and Earth first opened, clear qi rose and turbid qi sank; the sky stretched high to cover the four directions, and the broad earth bore the myriad things; Heaven and Earth each had their place, and the distinction of above and below was fixed thereby. Viewed from the distant natural world, Heaven is high and Earth low—which also symbolizes rank and subordination in human relations; viewed from the human body, the head is honored and the hands and feet assist—which likewise symbolizes that ruler and minister each have their order. The principle of graded rank and subordination has existed from antiquity.

Rather than leaving Heaven and Earth in undifferentiated chaos with Yin and Yang not yet manifest, it is better that Heaven and Earth part, the sun, moon, and five planets (the seven luminaries—sun, moon, and the five stars of metal, wood, water, fire, and earth) take visible form, and Yin and Yang nurture the myriad things so that each kind of thing takes shape. From this one can also see: birds and beasts gather and scatter in different ways—birds roost in nests, beasts hide in dens; they feed on fur, flesh, and blood and clothe themselves in grass and leaves; in groups they have no familial order of honor and lowliness, and in movement no grades or ritual dignity. That is far inferior to dwelling in spacious houses, eating fine rice and prepared dishes, wearing brocade woven with patterns, keeping warm in winter and cool in summer.

The wise ruler can govern the state; able ministers can assist in worldly affairs. They establish offices and assign duties so that all under Heaven is settled and harmonious. When high and low have clear order, people aspire to reward and fear punishment; if power and strength were fully equal, people would contend without restraint in their rivalry. Therefore sages appear in response to the times, receiving mandate from Heaven. Some invented nets for hunting and fishing; some observed the stars and drilled wood to make fire; some tested plants and selected grains; some built houses to shelter from wind and rain. They provided what life requires, removed harm and promoted benefit—and the people gladly supported them, revering and honoring them. The order between ruler and minister was established thereby; how could there be deceit, fooling, or the strong bullying the weak?

The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors (legendary sage-kings of antiquity) rose in succession, and moral teaching flourished thereby. They distinguished good from evil, advocated encouragement and restrained punishment; virtue flourished and punishments were clear—then songs praising wise ruler and worthy minister in harmony appeared, and broad Great Peace was achieved. Order under Heaven was secure; the sun, moon, and the seven governors of metal, wood, water, fire, and earth moved in proper cycles. The phoenix called in the land of the rising sun, the qilin appeared with auspicious signs, tortoise and dragon showed prophetic markings by the river, and the Jing star and Old Man star shone on the celestial path. The emperor’s transforming virtue spread through the nine regions; weapons were stored in arsenals and no longer used for war.

Therefore, once ritual institutions are established, the ruler can be secure; when ritual and music flourish, penalties and punishments can be set aside unused. As for extravagance, dissipation, recklessness, and cruelty, all arise from people themselves—must they inevitably appear simply because there is a ruler? Bao Sheng only points to the faults of declining ages and says nothing about conditions when governance reaches great peace. Why is that?

Moreover, life in remote antiquity was plain and simple, largely because custom had not yet changed and the people were still like innocent children, without cunning or calculation. It was like infants whose intelligence had not yet awakened—not that they clearly understood yet refused to act, nor that they had desires yet forcibly held back. If individuals fought over the benefits of wild grasslands, and clans fought over places to dwell and nest, while above there were no officials to settle disputes and below there were groups of the same kind gathering and forming factions, then private quarrels would be fiercer than public war, wood and stone would be sharper than weapons, corpses would cover the open country, and blood would stain the roads. If there were no ruler for long, even the living would eventually perish.

As for taming dragons and phoenixes, and auspicious signs such as the River Chart and Luo Writing—some borne on the backs of scaly spirit creatures, some appearing as yellow fish rising from the waves, some transmitted by red divine birds, some manifesting when whirling winds gathered three times—all this occurred in ages when there were rulers; it did not appear in times without kings. Omens of good fortune point to the subtle will of Heaven: sometimes to signal a change of dynasty, sometimes to display the flourishing of an era of great peace. If the ruler did not accord with Heaven’s intent, who would bring such blessed portents?

If you hold that undivided chaos alone is good, then Heaven and Earth should not have been separated; if you prize namelessness and formlessness as supreme, then the Eight Trigrams should not have been drawn. Was creation at fault, and was Taihao (the legendary ancient ruler Fuxi) benighted and ignorant?

The lofty doctrine you commend values only following nature as it is. I would ask: remembering one’s mother but not one’s father is the inborn nature of all living beings; bowing prostrate to show respect is a rite formed only in later ages. Yet one cannot indulge nature alone—one must honor one’s father; rites cannot be abolished—one must perform the bow. To let nature run free and discard ritual—could you accept that?

In ancient times, the living had no houses and the dead had no burial rites; on rivers there were no boats or oars, on land no carts or horses. People ate poisonous things and died from it; when ill they had no medicine, and countless died in vain. Later sages improved on this and handed these institutions down to posterity. The people to this day still enjoy these deep benefits; the advantages brought by artifice are not easily dismissed.

If people were made to live forever in crude dwellings, with no medical care until they died of illness, those who died unjustly would be very many. Later sages changed this situation and passed new ways of living on to posterity. The common people still benefit from these deep kindnesses today, and the conveniences brought by the various arts are not easily abandoned.

Suppose you were sent back to live in nests as crude as those, and after death your body was left in the wild; when you met water you swam across, when you crossed mountains you relied on your feet alone and carried loads on your back; you gave up cauldrons and tripods and ate only raw meat; you used no needles or stone implements for healing and let illness run its course; you took nakedness as adornment and wore no clothes; when you met a woman you took her as partner without a matchmaker. You would probably also find such practices unacceptable. All the more so—what would things be like if there were no ruler to govern?

Unless the people of highest antiquity were as ignorant and insensate as wood and stone, or as congealed as dark ice yet unafraid of cold, or could go without food and not hunger, such an ideal state could never be realized. As soon as people harbor desires for food and clothing, what they fight over need not be gold and jade, and what they compete for need not be rank and office. Acorns and thatch are enough to spark strife; wild greens are enough to invite seizure. Desire begins the moment one receives the breath of life; the bent toward putting oneself first and favoring oneself shows itself as soon as the body takes shape. Harm, killing, and annexation all follow human nature. On what grounds could one expect these things never to happen?

When a clear-sighted ruler sits above, every officer strives to remonstrate and assist; from the moment he sits down to govern until dawn breaks, he is busy as soon as light appears and often has no time to eat by evening. He opens every channel for speech so that faults may be pointed out, and requires close ministers to remedy defects and oversee affairs; he listens to popular opinion to examine policy, and in discharging duty he is cautious and alert, as if treading on a tiger’s tail, never slackening even through the night. He spreads upright conduct to wash away filth and enforces stern orders to discipline the people; the net of law is severe and tight, and offenders are not spared. Lesser offenses are punished with penalties; great evils are chastised with the nine punitive expeditions (jiufa). Even so, he still fears that jackal-and-wolf types will hold the vital passes, that human bonds and order will fall into chaos, that those in power will abuse might and bring disaster on house and state, and that the vicious and overbearing will harm the realm. Therefore the ruler strictly appoints law officers who strike lawbreakers like eagles, and bold warriors bearing axes and ceremonial blades (fu-yue) inspect prisons and litigation everywhere. Yet turmoil stirred by the arrogant and brutal has never ceased from age to age.

Bao Sheng raised another objection: Heaven and Earth each have their place, and the two qi of Yin and Yang (the complementary forces that shape and nurture all things) give form to the myriad beings. Some creatures prefer yang and soar among the clouds; others prefer yin and dwell in rivers and streams. Each follows its inborn nature, grows and changes with the four seasons, and finds its proper place—originally there was no rank of high and low. Once the institutions of ruler and subject were established, all sorts of change and abuse arose as well.

When otters grow numerous, fish suffer disturbance; when hawks multiply, birds cannot rest in peace. When there are too many layers of officialdom, the people are worn down; when tribute to those above is too lavish, those below grow poor. The upper ranks amass great wealth, build splendid towers and pavilions, set tables with extravagant fare, and wear robes embroidered with dragons. Inside the palace many women are gathered; outside, many men remain without wives. Rare treasures are sought out, the price of exotic goods is inflated, useless implements are manufactured, and desire is indulged without limit. This wealth and labor does not appear by spirit transformation—where can it come from? Grain and cloth may be piled in storehouses, yet the people may still lack food and clothing. When the full apparatus of bureaucracy is in place, enormous costs of maintenance and tribute must be met. Among the suwei (personnel charged with guarding the palace), many draw provisions without producing anything themselves, and the common people must also support a host of idle dependents.

The people already struggle to sustain themselves—how much harder when heavy taxes and crushing corvée labor are added? Unable to bear the load, freezing and starving, they take desperate risks and break the law—and the reason lies here. The ruler above is worn with worry; the taiding (weighty ministers of the court) below are anxious as well, as if standing at the edge of a deep abyss or treading on thin ice, dreading calamity. They fear that wit and courage will go unused, so they offer high rank and rich stipends to attract talent; they also dread unexpected treachery and rebellion, so they raise high walls and dig deep moats for defense.

Rulers do not understand that rewards and salaries that are too generous make the people strained and officials arrogant; when city defenses are built too strong, corvée labor grows heavy and also teaches enemies to be more skillful at siege. Therefore King Wu of Zhou distributed the wealth of Lutai to the people and released the grain from Juqiao, and everyone rejoiced. How much more so if one never hoarded wealth or collected grain from the people in the first place?

King Wu once pastured cattle at Taolin and horses at Mount Hua, put away weapons and laid down bows and arrows; people still felt that this was already very generous. How much more so if there had been no war and no need to conscript men for garrison duty? The ancient sage kings lived in thatched huts and stepped on earthen stairs, stopped weaving and uprooted mallow plants; they used mixed-color cloth bags for curtains, washed fur garments with coarse cloth, and used cloth for quilts; consorts did not wear silk, and horses were not fed millet. They took frugality as their example, and for this they were praised in tradition.

This is like a robber taking a smaller share when dividing loot and calling himself modest; or like fish on dry land that can only moisten each other by spitting foam. If the people need not perform public labor and their households bear no burden of taxes and corvée, if they can live and work in peace, follow the seasons and cultivate according to the land, with enough food and clothing at home and no conflicts over power and profit outside, then taking a club to rob others would go against human feeling. With only symbolic punishments used for teaching, the people would not violate prohibitions. The opposite holds: the more dense the laws, the more thieves there are.

Is it that some people are born without desire for profit while others are especially greedy and cruel? In fact, when rulers are quiet and interfere little, the people naturally become upright; when the people are worn out and resentful, crafty and opportunistic thoughts arise. Even if one lets things run their course, one still worries that someone will bully and tyrannize; if the people never stop laboring and are constantly exploited, fields lie fallow and storehouses empty, looms have no cloth to weave, and with neither enough to eat nor enough to wear, how can one expect society not to fall into disorder? Wishing to remove calamity, one only makes it deeper; however strict the prohibitions, they may still fail to stop rebellion.

Passes and bridges were originally meant to prevent wrongdoing, yet cunning officials use them to commit wrongdoing; balances and measures were originally meant to detect fraud, yet wicked people use them to create fraud. Ministers should support a realm in crisis, yet treacherous ministers fear only that the ruler’s situation is not dangerous enough; weapons and armor exist to quell disorder, yet bandits use them to produce disorder. All of these are consequences of having a ruler who governs. Once the people see a chance to profit, a spirit of contention arises.

When wealthy and powerful families gain great benefits, they easily attract rivalry and danger. War was originally meant to put chaos to rest, yet bandits also borrow it to create chaos. All of these are effects of how rulers govern. When the people have desires they cannot satisfy, hearts of contention arise. The stakes for the rich and noble are weighty; but strife among ordinary folk is merely common people matching strength—how much calamity can that really cause? They have no territory to covet, no walled cities to seize, no gold and silver to eye, no power to fight over; they lack the strength to gather great crowds, and lack the authority to command outsiders.

How can that compare with a ruler who suddenly flies into a rage, arrays troops, and puts armies in order? The ruler drives people who bear him no grudge to attack states guilty of no crime, until corpses lie by the tens of thousands, blood flows and floats, and the open country is stained red. Rulers without the Way exist in every age: they indulge cruelty, disturb all under heaven, and leave the realm without peace—loyal ministers harmed at court, common people left unburied on the battlefield. That is far more than the harm of petty quarrels.

As for requiring people to abandon serving their fathers and serve the ruler instead—to set aside filial duty in the name of loyalty to the lord—even if one claimed there were no ruler under heaven, such a demand would still remain.

The ancients built houses only so wind and rain would be kept off; today roofs are covered with cinnabar and purple dyes, adorned with gold and jade. The ancients made clothes only to cover the body; today people fuss over black and yellow hues, embroider lavish patterns, and wear brocade, gauze, and fine silk. The ancients made music only to settle the heart; today music is intricate and unrestrained, disturbing the spirit and injuring harmonious qi. The ancients ate only to fill the belly; today people burn mountains and forests, drain rivers and lakes, and slaughter every kind of living creature. Because these practices go to excess, must one abolish all fine fabrics and the things enjoyed in life?

If sage rulers such as Tang Yao and Yu Shun held the throne, with worthy ministers like Hou Ji and Qi assisting them—dwelling in plain halls, lightening taxes, and employing the people according to the seasons of agriculture; promoting an upright ethos of thrift and strictly forbidding extravagant feasting; honoring and making visible those who are plain and simple, while dismissing and punishing those who disturb teaching and harm the people—then songs of praise would rise of themselves and the people would be at peace. Why, out of fear of fire, tear down every house? Why, out of fear of waves, fill in the great rivers?

Baopuzi said: Bao Sheng endorsed the view that “in high antiquity there were no rulers.” I had already refuted him. Later he replied to me; the piece was too long to copy in full, so I extracted his points one by one and questioned each in turn.

Bao Sheng said: Rulers gather rare treasures and amass strange and marvelous objects to adorn things of no practical use, satisfying desires that know no end.

Baopuzi rejoined: Tell me—have emperors and kings through the ages all gathered rare treasures and hoarded exotic goods? Some have not. I have heard that when Tang Yao ruled, he took gold from the mountains; when Yu Shun abdicated, he cast his jade disk into a mountain valley. They ate simply and dressed plainly, much like gatekeepers. From this one can see that they did not dive into deep pools for pearls, cut into cliffs for fine jade, smelt ore from rock for gold and silver, cross distant seas for kingfisher feathers, go to remote regions for tortoise shell (dai mao), or travel far to mine mineral pigments.

If clothing and adornment were wholly undifferentiated, a ruler’s authority would be hard to display; when ranks and stations differ, ritual implements and goods should differ accordingly. Therefore the Duke of Zhou, who assisted King Cheng of Zhou, established rites distinguishing noble and base, superior and inferior: palace and dwelling were limited in scale; caps, carriage covers, and banners had matching patterns and marks; chariots, horses, dress, and utensils were fixed in number by rank; and meals were graded by degree. In years of famine and disaster, these expenditures were further reduced. Boundless desire does not belong to a ruler who possesses the Dao. What you say may suffice to condemn tyrants such as Xia Jie and King Zhou of Shang, but it does not prove the doctrine you advocate.

Bao Sheng said: A ruler’s inner quarters hold three thousand women—is that all Heaven’s arrangement? When grain and cloth are stockpiled, the people go hungry and cold.

Baopuzi states: The number of consorts a king may have was a system established by the sages. The sages’ virtue accorded with Heaven and Earth; such arrangements were hardly mere indulgence of feeling and desire. They were meant to assist in the inner palace’s affairs, harmonize Yin and Yang, educate members of the royal clan, serve the ancestral temple, reverently conduct major sacrifices and supply the vestments required for them, and ensure the flourishing of the lineage’s descendants.

Consider also the Zhou li’s records of household registers in each region, and the Han-era statistics of geography and population: women outnumbered men throughout the realm. As the paramount lord of all under Heaven, how could the king marry every woman of marriageable age? When the Duke of Zhou first deliberated on this matter, his planning already seems to have been thorough.

The sovereign leads the officials in the ceremonial plowing of the sacred field; the queen and consorts lead titled ladies in sericulture and mulberry work. The common people too must engage in farming. Cultivation was regulated: diligence in tillage was rewarded, idleness and neglect punished; a tithe was levied to supply public needs of the state. Every household stored grain against famine, and the state accumulated enough for nine years’ use. People followed the seasons and made use of the land, missed no critical farming times, and with light taxes and few corvée demands, the people did not go hungry or cold. Once clothing and food were sufficient, ritual propriety and mutual deference arose.

In the time of Emperors Wen and Jing, the people devoted themselves to agriculture; every household was well-off, and grain in the official granaries rotted and changed color beyond counting—yet scholars and commoners still enjoyed ample food, and cattle and horses filled the fields. This was because tax collection was restrained and the people were not excessively burdened.

By the decadent age, the government had abandoned institutions that urged farming, while the people turned instead to trades that did not produce grain. The paths by which grain was produced did not expand, yet those who lived off others without tilling grew ever more numerous. Thus hardship afflicted both high and low, and lawbreakers multiplied. Bao Sheng, however, laid the blame on the ruler. Better than that would be to criticize the inner palace for exceeding proper limits in selecting consorts, to fault the failure to enforce agricultural supervision, to investigate the palace’s heavy consumption of food, and to pursue the harm of excessive land taxes levied by the acre. If the inner palace followed the Zhou li and taxes were not arbitrarily imposed on the people, that would suffice; must one therefore abolish the ruler altogether?

If the ruler rises late even for a single day, affairs of state may lose their order; if one hunts and chases deer without a guide, one will only stray into the forest. How could there forever be no ruler and no head? Then the gentleman would lose what he respects and relies upon, while the vicious would gain the upper hand. However coarse the mesh, a net still catches something—how could there be no net at all?

Bao Sheng says: For people to live, the burden of clothing and food is already heavy—how much more when taxes and corvée are added? When hunger and cold arrive together and the people cannot endure it, they will violate the laws and commit wrongdoing.

Baopuzi’s interlocutor said: Spiders weave their webs, and fleas and lice do not go hungry. People rely on wisdom and skill to command the myriad things and satisfy their needs for food and clothing—how could that count as anything great? What I worry about is only that the rich never know when they have enough, and the noble never cease craving power. Can one really, for that reason alone, do nothing all one’s life?

Rulers as brutal as Jie of Xia and King Zhou of Shang do make people feel they would be better off with no ruler at all. What can be faulted is this: the ruler holds the reins of government yet makes affairs ever more tangled; taxes weigh heavier than in ancient times; the people wear themselves out on trifles and so suffer cold and hunger together. But if one claims that wherever there are corvée and taxes the state must fall into chaos, I would ask: in the age when Yao and Shun brought great peace, and when the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties were well governed—were there not taxes and corvée to sustain the state? Did rulers and chief ministers all plow for themselves and live entirely on what they grew?

Bao Sheng sees only that when cold and hunger strike together the people cannot rest content in poverty; he does not see that only when food and clothing are ample do people learn honor and shame. Bao Sheng said: When a ruler governs the realm, it is like walking beside a deep abyss or stepping on a tiger’s tail—is that not proof enough of peril? The ruler dares not sleep soundly at night but waits for dawn; when the sun has passed west he still has no time to eat and only takes his meal at evening. With such vigilance, what disaster need he still dread?

Baopuzi rejoined: Only if one truly acted thus would one deserve the name of a sage ruler. The ruler’s gravest failing is arrogance and extravagance; the worthy go unused, and those used are unworthy. Xia Gui—that is, Jie of Xia—pointed to Heaven and likened himself to it; the First Emperor of Qin feared that later ages would all call him by the same posthumous title—both brought ruin on themselves and became laughingstocks to posterity.

If the ruler stays alert at every turn, listens widely to remonstrance, asks the folk of village and field for their views, and consults elders of virtue, what affair would go wrong or what office fail to be settled? A ruler who is cautious and reverent can uphold the bonds of order; slackness and neglect invite treachery and rebellion. And besides, how could one suppose that without a ruler there would be no disorder at all?

Bao Sheng said: The ruler prizes and pursues strange omens and auspicious signs, using them to draw people from remote and wild lands, hoping thereby to display virtue and raise his prestige and to show off bright finery. What good to ordinary people are white pheasants and jade disks—such tokens of good omen?

Ge Hong, drawing on ancient accounts of auspicious signs, explains that a ruler’s virtue resonates with Heaven and Earth: when virtue reaches Heaven, celestial portents appear; when virtue extends over the land, signs manifest on earth. For example, the Jing star (a star of good omen) shines brightly, as if adding to the radiance of Wangshu (a name for the moon); a halo appears beside the sun, as if revealing the track of Xihe (the deity who drives the sun’s chariot). Spirit birds call beside lofty towers, and golden divine elephants gleam in clear pools. Could such sights be obtained through humble words or lavish gifts?

Wang Mang was treacherous and harbored usurpation in his heart, yet he painted a picture of universal peace, deceived court and country, and sent gifts to lands beyond the borders so they would present auspicious omens. That does not mean the ancient portents were all obtained in the same way. When one sees a creature whose tail is ten feet long, one knows it cannot be only a few inches; when one sees tusks many ren in length, one knows they cannot grow on a mouth only an inch wide. When the Queen Mother of the West sends envoys, it shows that the wondrous Way can reach the numinous and transform distant regions; when the Yuechang people come to offer tribute through layers of interpreters, it suffices to show that the ruler’s grace extends to foreign lands and that nowhere under Heaven is left untouched. Remote regions cannot be conquered by force alone, and barbarian states cannot be held by intimidation alone; unless governance reaches the highest level, how could things be thus?

Bao Sheng says auspicious signs are useless. The Zhou did not lack jade, nor did they need the Queen Mother of the West’s jade ring to appear rich; they were not short of food, nor did they wait for the white pheasant from Yuechang to fill the kitchen. People value these portents because they symbolize peace under Heaven: above, no harsh or tyrannical orders; below, no people without a place to live; even birds and insects each find their proper ease. As a vision of a state at its best, what could surpass this? To say auspicious signs are worthless and bring no benefit to the people is because their roots are deep and their meaning weighty, not easy to see at a glance; that Bao Sheng would speak thus is not surprising.

Bao Sheng also says: the ruler fears unforeseen treachery and disaster, and therefore builds strong walls as a defense.

Baopuzi rebutted: When feudal lords set up strategic defenses, that is the approach the Yijing commends. It is truly unclear why anyone should mock strong, well-fortified cities.

After heaven and earth were opened and the myriad things were born, the upright and the perverse existed side by side. The sages knew that evil and ugliness arise naturally, and that foolish people are hard to change—as spring sunlight cannot make withered, rotten wood bloom again, and the blazing sun of midsummer cannot melt metal and stone.

If one’s appearance is overly seductive and one’s stores of wealth are not kept with care, lust and bandits may be provoked. One should therefore follow the lesson of Xikan (the hexagram in the Yijing that signifies danger and peril) and prepare before disaster strikes. Multiple gates with night-watch and clapper alarms, and troops kept in order—these guard against violent intruders. Given that, how can anyone argue that such precautions should all be removed? Where is the sense in that?

The rhinoceros has its horn, the phoenix its talons and spurs—heaven gave them these means of self-defense; that does not mean they use them at every moment. Bees and scorpions carry stings to protect themselves; clever birds hold reeds in their beaks to avoid nets; badgers dig winding burrows so enemies cannot rush straight in; water buffalo form ranks to fend off tigers and leopards.

Yet Bo Sheng would cast off armor and meet the enemy with a sharp blade alone; tear down walls and moats to stop a charge. If armor is already discarded while the enemy’s blades do not stop; if the city is already ruined while the enemy’s assaults keep coming—then even Gongshu Ban and Mozi could not save themselves. How, then, are we supposed to survive?

Some say: “If there is nothing worth coveting, even without strong walls the enemy will not come.”

Baopuzi replied: What people covet is not necessarily gold, silver, pearls, or jade. Even a gain no larger than the tip of an awl or a knife-blade can set the foolish to fighting. Great wars broke out in Yue because the division of a python was unfair; rebellions in Wu and Chu likewise began over a single mulberry leaf.

In years of famine people devoured one another and lived stripped and barefoot. In antiquity there were Fuhou and Zigao; in more recent times Lord Yu and Shi Zhi—they weighed cases and punishments with care and examined matters to the finest point. Those who were executed stifled their weeping and praised their kindness; those who had suffered amputation of the foot or nose held no grudge for life. When these things happened, were they not times when rulers governed?

In the past, capable men of humble station were not overlooked by the Four Mountains; the court sought talent broadly, and Yuan and Kai of low birth were all given office. Some laid down the butcher’s knife and entered government; some left off building walls and mounting the hall; some gave up tending livestock and eating their fill to become ministers and chiefs; others had once fled yet later rose to be top generals. Boyang recommended his enemy to the court; Jie Hu presented his own foe for appointment; Fang Hui knocked his head on the ground to recommend talent, and Qin Xi even smashed his skull in recommending the worthy. I ask: at that time, was there no ruler?

Some also say that fields lie fallow and granaries stand empty—all because there is a ruler. Yet the ruler is not the weeds choking the fields, nor are ministers the sparrows and rats that empty the storehouses. When fields are wasted and stores depleted, it is ultimately adverse fortune at work: floods, droughts, and pestilence follow one another and famine follows—how can that be blamed on tax levies and government orders?

Among the eight affairs of state, grain ranks first; hence it is called the root on which the people live. Hou Ji himself plowed; the ruler of the Youyu clan also went down to the soil. In good years millet and rice were plentiful and granaries held grain counted by the hundred million; the people ate stored grain that had aged for years. When the Bai Canal was completed, salty alkaline land became rich farmland; Shao Fu built the Yangling reservoir and grain piled like mountains; Shu Ao opened the Qisi waterworks and households had more stored grain than they could eat; Zhao Guo devised the triple plow and the Guanxi region flourished; Ren Yan taught the people of Jiuzhen to farm and made them warm and fed. Did all these things happen when there were no rulers?

The Baopuzi says: No misfortune is greater than not knowing when one has enough, and no blessing is deeper than understanding where to stop. To remain modest and restrained even in abundance is a sound strategy for preserving oneself; to sink into ease and cling to fullness is a perilous situation in which self-preservation is hard.

Shan Juan, Chao Fu, Xu You, Guan Zhong, Hu Zhao, and others all understood how to keep away from worldly strife and avoid the lure of fame and profit. They sensed that enticing benefits might conceal a hidden edge, and could see danger coming while it was still only beginning; therefore they left the risky path early and went far away, so as not to be snared like Zhan He on a fishhook. They were skilled at reading subtle signs beyond outward appearance—seeing hard ice coming before frost had fallen; moving firewood and rebuilding the chimney while the fire still burned brightly, to guard against blaze; furled sails and stilled the oars before the gale rose.

When they saw rich bait, they knew well the risk of entrapment; when they saw thick foliage, they did not linger because of it. They did not build nests atop reeds, nor sleep beneath cliffs about to collapse. Such people had large capacity, knew how to weigh the times, saw far, and walked apart—unbound by ordinary desires. Their spirit seemed to commune with nature; inwardly they transcended the myriad things. Outer temptations could not taint their purity, and things that nearly accorded with the Way could not cloud their clear mind. Without following one’s nature as they did, it is hard to approach their surpassing conduct.

They teach that after success one should withdraw; those who bear heavy responsibility and toil much are not necessarily rewarded. When the cunning hares are all caught, the hunting dog may lose its use; when the high birds are all shot, the fine bow may be cast aside. From the fates of Peng Yue and Han Xin one should learn the method of resigning office in good time; from the peril in which Wen Zhong of Yue found himself one should grasp how precious it is to preserve life.

Fan Li drifted away in a small boat and shunned worldly affairs; Xue Sheng stepped back from chaotic times and kept his integrity unstained; the Two Shus returned their seals when power was at its height; Tian Yu untied his official seal and ribbon as his career neared its end. In advancing they avoided the fault of arrogance that invites disaster; in retreating they did not fall into the regret of being caught between advance and withdrawal. Their pure wind could sweep away a thousand years of vulgar dust; their virtue could dispel later generations’ confusion. Compared with Chen Fan and Dou Wu, their stature differed by more than a thousand li.

Some, through insufficient wisdom, plotted too grandly and failed; some axles could not bear the load and finally broke.

Some people have limited talent yet insist on planning great undertakings; some axles and yokes are too weak to bear a heavy load; some cling to idiosyncratic views and are censured by the crowd; some exhaust themselves in loyal, blunt remonstrance only to run into a clash of opposing opinions. Some offer brilliant plans and invite disaster like that of Chao Cuo; some wear themselves out and suffer harm like Wu Qi. Thus even when one is cautious at every turn, calamity may still be unavoidable.

The Duke of Zhou was sent into exile; Confucius left the state of Lu. Jia Yi was banished to a remote place; Sima Qian (courtesy name Zichang) suffered castration though innocent. Yue Yi pacified Qi; Wu Zixu broke Chu; Bai Qi won battle after battle and expanded the realm; Fan Li with nine stratagems helped Yue dominate; Han Xin’s achievements topped the empire; Ying Bu overthrew Qin and aided the founding of Han. Yet some of them saw glory vanish in an instant; some soon met shame and disaster. If they did not avoid misfortune, could that be called wisdom?

To serve as a minister is not easy, and the situations one meets are not of one kind alone. In summary, the crux lies in choosing one’s lord; one’s own talent cannot be relied on absolutely—history has already shown this. Resigning office, yielding, and keeping clear of the seat of the worthy both preserves integrity and brings security; fame and practical gain together—there is no greater blessing than that. Those who can act thus are perhaps one in ten thousand. Fortune and misfortune follow human choice—how can one fail to weigh this carefully?

Unpalatable loyal words are rarely heard with pleasure. Those who offer counsel hope to win honor and favor, yet may instead hasten disaster; those in power are busy fending off slander and mockery—how can they guarantee they will heed good advice? When arrows and snares for birds are set on every side, even the legendary yuanchu (divine bird) will wheel and keep its distance; when traps line the road, the qilin will restrain its steps and refuse to appear.

The emotions must not be indulged to the extreme; desire must not be filled to the brim. The discerning use principle to restrain feeling and strategy to dispel craving. In planning for others one should still be loyal; how much more, in seeking one’s own prosperity, must one not be careful. Only those who know sufficiency can often feel content; those who know no sufficiency are never satisfied. The contented invite blessing; the discontented easily draw misfortune.

Excessive greed for livelihood and pleasure in fact harms life. The man of Song who pulled up seedlings to make them grow, and the man of Ying who stretched leather in haste—both seemed to want quick success, but in reality made things wither and fail all the sooner. Advancing without remembering to yield describes exactly such a case. Like a rush that shoots up without pause, few do not topple and fall; racing across the waves on the water’s surface, few do not sink.

Like repeatedly waving a blade, one inevitably gets cut; ceaseless chopping also easily damages tools. When things reach their fullest flourish, they turn toward harm—this is the natural principle. The tilted warning vessel in the Zhou temple that cautioned against complacency—would it deceive anyone?

Yang Youji was skilled at archery; passersby who saw him draw the bow knew he was already weary. Dongye Ji drove chariots; Yan Hui saw that his carriage would soon lose control. After success, it is hard to stay long in the original state. Not everyone who drinks gets drunk, yet most who are drunk are linked to drinking; not everyone who is wealthy meets danger, yet some do fall into peril because of wealth.

The wise can foresee change from signs of mutual dependence and mutual transformation—like planning how to fell a tree when it first sprouts, not waiting until chess pieces are heaped high to pronounce grand theories, nor waiting until foxes gather to discuss making fur coats.

Did the ancients feign madness and play the fool because they enjoyed it? They were forced by the times and had no choice. Some hid deep in seclusion yet met storms on dry land; some lived apart in quiet yet suffered fire on the water. Gong Sheng died by fasting; Li Ye, under compulsion, finally drank poison. These calamities all had to do with leaving signs in one’s path and a shadow that would not vanish. If one could walk on water without a trace, the body like a shadow unseen, act without tracks that others could follow, and in stillness align with Wuwei (non-action), how could such calamities befall? All the more so for those who hoist sun-and-moon renown to display themselves and beat great drums in their conduct, only to chase power and profit.

Only in politically clear ages can one unfold ambition and bring relief to the world; born into vicious, chaotic times, even preserving oneself is hard. More than one person has long sighed over this. I have heard that the fiercest fire must finally go out, and what is excessively full must finally decline. Splendor for a moment already holds the sign of turning to ash; spring grass in full growth also foretells autumn withering. The sun at noon begins to slope westward; the moon after fullness wanes; the seasons turn, and at the peak things revert. Look at all things: a lofty building raised without limit—what one finally fears is collapse.

From personal experience, when one eats without restraint—indulging in delicacies and fine wine—illness accumulates and the body is harmed. How much more so when a person whose reputation already reaches the clouds continues to amass power, or when one whose authority already shakes the ruler keeps adding to it?

When mosquitoes and gnats land on a mountain, they merely flutter about its slopes; but when rhinoceroses and tigers fall from a height, they are smashed to pieces. This means that those who occupy high positions and wield great power must not be misplaced or act wrongly. If one strictly denounces faults, upholds the right path in all affairs, and even violates the laws without hesitation in conflict with enemies, deep resentment will accumulate. Yet if one abandons the law, covers up wrongdoing, and immediately complies with every request made of them—suppressing the strong while bullying the weak, twisting standards at every turn—one will lose loyalty and righteousness and ruin one's reputation. To be in such a position—is it not exhausting? Thus, those who can preserve themselves and their reputation are few, while those who stumble and fail are not rare.

Yet when such people return home, they dwell in elegant orchid-scented chambers, hung with crimson curtains and embroidered canopies. In their splendid mansions, brocade cushions are spread, and beautiful women attend them. These women move with graceful lightness and speak in soft voices, singing clear songs and performing exquisite dances—dances as skillful as those of Song and Cai, as lovely as those of Yang'e. They sing songs like "Gathering Water Chestnuts" and "Morning Dew," and step to dances like "Green Water" and "Seven Turns." The music is pleasing, the figures enchanting, and dense feasts follow one after another, with fine wine never ceasing.

They ascend ornate towers to look down upon clear pools; they stroll through orchards of red and green fruit, playing in fragrant gardens of orchids. Fish swim in the waters, colorful birds fly to and fro; they shoot down wild geese from the clouds with throwing cords and let down fishing lines to catch bream and carp. Exotic treasures from distant lands arrive without being sought; all manner of splendid curiosities gather before their eyes.

When they go out, lacquered wheels illuminate the road, tall canopies follow one after another, red banners spread like clouds, and ceremonial staffs display their imposing authority. Chariots clamor, spears and armor gleam. In their pride, they ride in the rear carriage, their convoy stocked with delicacies, and they fully enjoy the pleasures of touring, hunting, and fishing. Praise for their wisdom and virtue constantly reaches their ears, and flattering, sycophantic words issue from many mouths. Thus they deem themselves extraordinary, look down upon the ancients, and even consider Yi Yin, Lü Shang, Guan Zhong, and Yan Ying unworthy of mention.

Can anyone truly sense that prosperity and decline take turns, like morning and evening in a single day, and that sorrow and joy also alternate, like dawn and dusk—and for that reason wish to resign a lofty post, ask to retire, leave vermilion gates and grand mansions, and return to field and garden? As for the case where a sage ruler sits on the throne and great worthy ministers assist in governing affairs, where the hundred officials cannot put government in order without you and the common people cannot receive relief without you—where one holds high rank yet does not fear that position will bring danger, and though one’s fame is already full, one does not worry it will invite disaster—such situations lie outside what is discussed here.

Obscurity and Eminence

Someone asked: Among people of comparable talent, why do some remain in straits and never rise, while others become prominent and succeed? Those whose outstanding ability is constrained and cannot be put to use—do they not feel regret in their hearts?

Ge Hong said: Human talent and character may not differ in quality, yet some are suppressed while others rise to prominence—often because they have not encountered someone who truly understands them. Fortune has its ups and downs, and official careers have their smooth and blocked paths; all this is the arrangement of fate. Those who grasp the times need not resent their temporary obscurity; those who comprehend destiny need not lament low status or difficult circumstances.

Exquisite metal submerged in water possesses tough, resilient strength; if not used for striking, even delicate morning fungi cannot be severed by it. Precious jade worth a thousand cities, if cast into mud, will be covered by gravel. Thus, valuable things are not necessarily appreciated, and useful things are not always employed.

Ordinary people lack the discernment to distinguish vermilion from purple or beans from wheat. They only regard the successful as virtuous, without understanding how they achieved success; they only see the struggling as inferior, without recognizing that some endure hardship due to upholding the Dao.

The sun, moon, and stars, if not attached to the sky, cannot emit light to illuminate the four directions; Mount Song and Mount Tai, if not resting on the earth, cannot rise to touch the clouds. Rabbits rely on flat paths to run swiftly; large dragon boats need swift currents to show their speed. The mythical Li Fire cannot ignite without the fire-drill of Suiren; Chu metal cannot be forged into sharp swords without the master smith Ou Yezi. Flowers and trees only display lush beauty in spring; wild geese only soar lightly when strong winds blow.

The Four Sacred Mountains, if not recommending talent, would not have elevated Shun; Bao Shuyu, if not promoting ability, would not have enabled Guan Zhong to be employed. Sima Rangju gained renown through Yan Pingzhong's recommendation; Han Xin rose to prominence through Xiao He's support. Jun Sheng was introduced through Sheng Zhi's discourse; Chen Ping was appointed through Wei Wuzhi's recommendation. Xu Shu brought Zhuge Liang out of seclusion through his recommendation to Liu Bei; Zhou Yu recommended the valiant Gan Ning.

Therefore, the worthy could inscribe their fine names in the court registers, and their outstanding achievements were transmitted to later ages. By the end of the Han and the end of Wu, however, things were no longer so. When selecting scholars, those who attached themselves to the selectors were always placed first; when appointing talent, the decision turned on how large one's faction was. Those who attached themselves were not necessarily capable, yet because they shared the same inclinations they could not be set aside; those with many followers were not necessarily outstanding, yet because everyone praised them they were deemed fit for use.

Some trusted these mediocre and shallow men, yet could not release the private feelings they owed to those close to them; some met truly extraordinary talent, yet could not treat them with impartial justice. Thus they abandoned the standard by which talent is measured and instead used closeness and distance in personal ties to decide what mattered; they cast aside the scale for judging ability and instead used the size of clique gatherings to determine rank. Of those then called elegant, pure, and in command of state power—who fixed appointments and dismissals and praised or blamed men with their own mouths—how many were not entangled in this disease? And all the more so when some inwardly hated those who stood apart from the crowd, detested those outside their faction, envied those who surpassed them, and looked down on those of humble birth.

Alas—those who rose above the common world and refused to follow the herd, and for that reason went unrecognized, were beyond counting. Some were pressed down among mountains, forests, and marshes; others, though present at court, could not put their gifts to use. They cultivated virtue yet met no age in which the right way could be practiced; they held talent in reserve yet missed the fitting time. Some waited until the realm was clear and bright, only to find their years exhausted; some gave exhaustive loyalty and diligence, yet were never understood. Their ability and strategy were never deployed in a lifetime; their merit and grace never reached the people. Precious treasures lay buried in mud; talent that could save the age found nowhere to be applied.

They were like Fu Yue, who once built walls at Fuyan and later, meeting King Wuding, was finally put to use; or like Lü Shang, who fished on the Wei River and later, encountering King Wen of Zhou, was able to act. From ancient times to the present, how many such cases have there been? To sigh over this alone—is that not a narrow view?

When they saw how long the road was, they were ashamed to walk it; though they knew the great way was blocked, they did not for that reason change what they held to; they treated success and failure as one, and left honor and disgrace to nature itself. Would such people brood because true friends were few, or lament because time slipped away? If one suspects that they harbored regret in their hearts, one has not yet understood the mind of the perfected person (zhiren). A child does not know the state of one who lives long; the frog at the bottom of a well does not know the vastness of the sea—so it has been since antiquity.

Ge Hong’s Baopuzi says: My friend Master Xuanpo, as soon as he reached the age of “setting his heart on learning,” had already read widely in the Six Classics and related texts, and had also mastered studies such as the River Chart and the Luo River Writing. By day he seized every moment to seek knowledge; at night he kept reading. No principle was too remote for him to investigate, no phrase too subtle for him to grasp. He took Confucian and Mohist teachings as his shield and keen intelligence as his weapon, so those who discoursed on learning often felt themselves outmatched in his presence, and literati who read his writings would lay down their pens in admiration.

Later he came to see that the wise need not always speak, and understood that guarding the inner mind and holding to single-minded restraint was no fault. He felt that once one has grasped the Way, the tools of expression may be set aside; when people’s aims do not align, however deep one’s words, few will respond. So he kept in mind Laozi’s warning that many words lead to failure, and recalled the golden figure’s mouth sealed three times—he sheathed his edge and was as cautious as one poor at speech; he still wrote, but hid his talent and prized learning without flaunting eloquence. From morning to night he sometimes did not utter a single word.

A disciple urged him: “Master, you are always silent—how are we younger followers to pass on your learning? In that case you seem no different from ordinary people. I think that a famous qin like Haozhong, if it never sounds, is no better than a pile of bronze; a stone instrument like the floating qing, if it never rings, is no better than a heap of stone.”

Master Xuanpo replied: “I am only putting aside present fame, hoping that generations hence I may meet those who understand—how could I fix my heart on being understood today or building a reputation in this one lifetime? Wine in a clay jar may be excellent, yet onlookers cannot tell that it can intoxicate. When status is low and words are lofty, even if correct, they may not be believed. To open one’s mouth in high talk and exhaust one’s breath—how can that remedy a drift from the Way and unrestrained excess? The ancients, at sixty, would still laugh at what they knew at fifty-nine; to turn back in time and not go astray truly makes sense.

“Jade’s hardness, diamond’s firmness, ice’s cold, fire’s heat—must these things speak for themselves before others know them? However perfect a performance, music cannot avoid uneven passages; however skilled Yang Youji was at archery, he could not guarantee every arrow hit. Those who love risky crossings often drown; those who love fine talk often slip in speech. Boya played the qin with care, so he had no worry of blundering through intricate passages; the ru treated words with caution, and thus did not invite disaster from a wrong remark.

“People of shallow vision are not like this. They dispute what is empty and trivial, and waste breath on petty points; they discuss sophistries like ‘broad cultivation of hard and white,’ and argue which parts of the masters’ writings slight the sages or violate the Way. They harm instruction and add confusion, yet think they speak of profundity; they leave the straight path and compete in crooked learning. Some vie for verbal victory with those whose insight is dim; some preach lofty doctrine to those who cannot understand. It is like playing refined music before a wooden puppet, or displaying black and yellow jade before a clay idol.

“The upshot is dry mouth, short breath, table-pounding and foot-stamping—like swinging an axe at wood yet failing to cut a knotted knot; fierce air and angry faces, while understanding only recedes. In the end anger shows on the face, harsh words leave the mouth, and frivolous quarrels arise. Once speech goes wrong, the stain is hard to wash away. Better to speak little and preserve far-reaching principle, express briefly, and leave it for those who truly understand to receive.”

Volume 49 of Baopuzi Waipian (Outer Chapters) concludes here.

Textual notes: In the first case, the character qi was originally si, emended following the collated text; in the second, fa was originally zhi; in the third, zi was originally an.

Baopuzi Waipian, Volume 50.

Zi Xu (the author’s autobiographical account).

Ge Hong, author of the Baopuzi, bore the surname Ge, the given name Hong, and the courtesy name Zhichuan. He was a native of Jurong in Danyang. His remote ancestor was Ge Tianshi; tradition holds that Ge Tianshi once ruled all under heaven, later reduced to a feudal domain, after which descendants took Ge as their surname.

An ancestor of Ge Hong had served as Inspector of Jing Province. When Wang Mang usurped the throne, he was ashamed to serve the usurper, resigned his office and returned home, and joined Dong Commandery Administrator Zhai Yi in raising troops to oppose Wang Mang; they were defeated. Later he received amnesty, claimed illness, and withdrew from public life. Wang Mang, fearing the clan’s strength might someday pose a threat, had the family relocated to Langya.

His son Pulü raised troops in support of Emperor Guangwu and won great distinction. After Guangwu ascended the throne, he appointed Pulü General of Chariots and Cavalry, later promoting him to General of Fast Cavalry and enfeoffing him as Marquis of Tong County in Xiapi with a fief of five thousand households. In the early Han, Pulü’s younger brother Wen followed his brother on campaign and won many victories. Pulü repeatedly memorialized the court on Wen’s behalf, but the court held that Wen had followed his brother without formal military enrollment and therefore granted no reward for merit.

Pulü said, “My brother and I together braved arrows and stones; he was wounded all over and even lost his right eye, yet received no reward at all, while I hold high rank and rich stipends—how can I be at ease?” He submitted a memorial asking to transfer his enfeoffment to his brother. When it reached the court, the Han, to honor his righteousness, specially approved the request. Wen tried to refuse but ultimately accepted the title. Pulü later built a residence at Bowangli near the General of Fast Cavalry’s camp; traces of the site and its stone foundations remain today. He also divided his stipend to support his officers and men, treating them on a par with two generals. The General of Fast Cavalry repeatedly urged him to stop, but he would not listen. The General said, “This only adds to the people’s burdens—where is the humility in that?” Pulü then left on the pretext of travel, crossed the Yangzi, and settled in Jurong.

His children and younger relatives worked the fields themselves, while he found his joy in reading. He sent messengers many times to welcome the Cavalry General (Piaoqi Jiangjun), but the general never came back. He also posted guards at the house in Bowang, hoping the Cavalry General might return someday; yet for generation after generation, no one ever lived there.

Ge Hong’s grandfather was broadly learned and well informed, and he pursued the most subtle and profound branches of knowledge in depth. In his day no one could rival his literary gifts, and he also had real talent for governing the realm. He served the state of Wu, successively as magistrate of Haiyan, Lin’an, and Shanyin counties; later at court he held the posts of Vice Minister of the Ministry of Personnel, Imperial Censor, Governor of Luling, Minister of the Ministry of Personnel, Junior Tutor to the Heir Apparent, Palace Attendant in the Secretariat, Grand Herald, Palace Attendant, Director of the Imperial Household, and General Who Assists Wu, and was enfeoffed as Marquis of Wushou County.

Ge Hong’s father was famed for filial piety and brotherly affection, and his conduct was worthy of a model for scholars. Every work recorded in the written tradition he read widely and studied thoroughly. In Wu he served as Director of the Five Offices, magistrate of Jiancheng and Nanchang counties, Secretariat Gentleman, Minister of Justice, and Director of the Central Guard Army. He was appointed Governor of Kuaiji but had not yet taken up the post when the Jin armies advanced down the Yangtze and Wu’s western frontier collapsed.

Ge Hong’s father was learned yet unpretentious, combining literary ability with military skill, and was unanimously respected inside and outside the court. He was therefore reassigned to an office overseeing public order across five commanderies. The Grand Commander assigned him five thousand personal troops to lead on campaign, garrison the frontier, and repel the enemy—but what heaven had ordained could not be turned back by human effort. The Wu ruler held him in high esteem and regarded him as truly capable of ordering the realm. After Wu fell, he was summoned on the strength of his former rank to serve as Gentleman of the Palace, and in time rose to Grand Master for Closing Court.

He once served as magistrate of Dazhong township, a district of twenty thousand households, and governed it better than anywhere else in the prefecture. He guided the people through moral example with results that stood out; his kindness spread widely and punishments were applied with clarity. Country folk praised his achievements in song, and there were no wrongdoers on the roads. He did not cultivate public fields, and in his comings and goings he never overstepped his bounds; not even the smallest gift was accepted into his home. The paper and brushes used in his official work he paid for entirely himself. Before punishments were even carried out, misconduct had already ceased; without many words from him, his transforming influence took hold on its own.

After resigning from office due to illness, he received an imperial edict appointing him Langzhongling (a household official) to the King of Wu. He carried himself with strict propriety, corrected errors, recommended the capable and removed the unfit, praised good conduct and impeached wrongdoing, so that both military affairs and state administration were kept in good order. He was later promoted to Governor of Shaoling and died in office.

Ge Hong was his third son. Ge Hong was born late; his parents doted on him and did not press him early to study. When he was thirteen, his father died. Having lost family guidance at an early age, he lived in hardship, tilled the fields himself, and worked from before dawn until after dark, striving to carry on his father’s aims. War and turmoil struck again and again, and the books handed down from his ancestors were entirely destroyed. With no books to read in slack seasons on the farm, he shouldered a book chest and walked about borrowing wherever he could; when he managed to borrow a volume, he copied it as best he could. To buy paper and brushes he sold firewood every day, copying by the light of the fire where he worked the land. For these reasons he could not begin the classics, history, and belles lettres as early as others. He often could not afford paper and had to write again and again on sheets already covered with writing, until the characters were hard for anyone to make out.

Only at sixteen did he begin to read the Classic of Filial Piety, the Analects, the Book of Odes, and the Book of Changes. His family was poor and he could not travel far to find teachers and friends, so his experience was narrow, his learning not broad, and his thinking not deep enough to grasp the main drift of many works. Yet he loved to read widely and could commit most of what he read to memory. He is said to have read nearly ten thousand volumes, from Confucian classics, histories, and the various masters down to short essays and miscellany. By nature, however, he was not good at memorizing, lacked literary polish, and could not fix his mind on one thing; what he held was not deep, and confusion was unavoidable. Even so, when he wrote he could still draw on what he had read. Thus he never became a thoroughly accomplished Confucian scholar, nor was he well suited to be a teacher who passed learning on to others.

As for books such as the Hetu and Luoshu and the apocryphal “weft” texts, he read them once and set them aside, unable to study them with single-minded attention. He disliked astrology, reckoning, the Nine Palaces, three kinds of chess, Taiyi, and Feifu-style talisman lore, finding those pursuits laborious and unrewarding. In his later years he studied wind-angle and qi-inspection methods, Sanyuan dunjia, Liuren, Taiyi, and similar arts, and gained a little familiarity with Taiyi and Feifu, but never went deep, judging them abstruse and dull.

In my later years I studied wind-angle and qi observation (divining fortune from wind direction, clouds, and the like), Three-Yuan Dunjia, Liuren, Taiyi, and similar arts. I grasped their general meaning but did not pursue them deeply. It seemed to me that most of these techniques serve to manipulate affairs and handle worldly business, no different in kind from human nature and desire; I need not hurry to wear myself out over them. Better to save the time for reading—perhaps that would do more good—so I set these arts aside again.

Consulting the Bibliographical Records and the Treatise on Literature, the books listed total thirteen thousand two hundred ninety-nine volumes. Since the Wei period, writings in every category have steadily increased, until their number is twice what it was before. Only then did I realize how vast the store of books I had never seen truly is. The holdings in the Jiangnan region, too, are incomplete. I once went specially to the capital to seek rare and unusual books, but met with great disorder in the realm and turned back halfway; I still regret it whenever I think of it. Now, nearing forty, my old ambitions have faded. I think only of steadily reducing selfish desire, following nature and not acting rashly, occasionally tilling fields in the hills and barely preserving my life. The enterprise of wide learning grows more subdued day by day.

By nature I am slow and plain, awkward and sparing of speech; my looks are nothing to boast of, yet I never explain myself or dress myself up on purpose. Hat and shoes are often dirty and worn; clothes sometimes hang in tatters, and I am not ashamed of it. The fashions of worldly dress change again and again: sometimes wide collars and broad sashes, sometimes short bodies and long sleeves, sometimes hems that sweep the ground, sometimes hems too short to cover the feet. I keep to old habits and do not follow the world’s shifts. My speech is always earnest; I do not jest for amusement. When I find no suitable company, I stay silent all day. For this reason people in my district call me a “scholar who holds to simplicity” (baopu zhi shi). I took that name for my writings and made Baopu my style name.

From birth I have been frail and often ill. The household is poor: no carriage or horses, and even walking is hard for me to bear—and by temperament I have never liked going out. Disliking also the worldly habit of abandoning essentials for trifles and excessive socializing, I took up the brush and settled down to write, keeping to a quiet, humble door and not running after others here and there. Those skilled in shifting with circumstances and hiding their tracks—even when close at hand—could not recognize me. My clothes could not keep out the cold, my roof could not keep out the rain, my food could not fill my belly; my name did not pass beyond the gate, and I did not worry over any of this.

At home he was poor and had no servants to command; the fence collapsed, thorns overran the courtyard, and couch grass and foxtail grew on the steps and under the eaves. He pushed through the bushes to go out and brushed aside the weeds to enter. Some thought he cared only for distant concerns and paid no heed to life before his eyes, yet they did not blame him for lacking help at hand. He did not know the etiquette of calls and visits, so at first he did not specially groom himself or prepare gifts to pay his respects to superiors.

When there was a major bereavement, or when he went to see someone in hardship or illness, he wished in his heart to go and do what he could, forcing himself so that he almost never stayed away; but if the distance was short and his health often failed him, in the end there were times he could not manage, and for this he was often mocked and reproached by those who talked. Hong took the fault upon himself and did not take it to heart. As long as his conscience was clear, it was only illness that kept his good intentions from being fulfilled—that was enough for him; why should he demand that everyone understand? Only those who discern matters clearly would forgive him, knowing that he truly held to simplicity and was not using it to parade lofty detachment.

How much the world values close, familiar ties, and how it praises secret mutual understanding and intimacy! Hong held that knowing a person is not easy—even sages find it difficult. Loose, mixed company is often agreement in words without understanding in the heart; it brings no benefit and can do harm. Though he could not, like Zhu Gongshu, cut off all such contact entirely, he had first to examine and clarify the situation before deciding how to relate. Many hated him for this, yet he did not change his course.

Those who scurry for advancement and cling to the gates of power also disliked and slandered him for being unlike them, saying he treated others with arrogance and looked down on the world. Hong acted according to his own heart; as for praise and blame, he paid them no mind. What he feared most was that those close to him would rely on their strengths and belittle others’ weaknesses.

Ashamed to rank among the lesser Confucian scholars, whenever he conversed with someone he would gauge the scope of what the other knew and speak accordingly, not forcing him toward what he had never heard. When debating and exploring learning with fellow scholars, he would usually begin by setting out the main points and the thread of the argument.

If time is short and I cannot set out what is in my heart in full, I only sketch the main point and direction in broad strokes, enough for the other person to be stirred and grasp the gist. There is no need to labor over an exhaustively detailed explanation. Those whose minds are calm, who ponder carefully, will for the most part understand on their own. As for people I judge unlikely to listen, even when they come asking, I often answer that I “do not know,” so as not to waste breath.

By nature I am quiet and dislike troubling those in authority. From youth to old age I have quietly helped several close friends who were being wronged. Because I could not speak frankly to those in office, those I helped never knew it was I who looked out for them. I simply could not bear to see them treated unjustly and so found private ways to assist. As for everyone else—even if they were close to me, held office, or wielded power—as long as we had no real bond of friendship, I never spoke a single word that might drag them into trouble.

When grain ran out and I urgently needed to prepare decoctions, I would ask friends for help; if someone was willing to lend a hand, I did not refuse. After accepting help, I always waited a long while before finding a chance to repay, so the other person would not notice. For people who were not close companions, I would not casually accept what they offered.

If I had enough grain to last ten days, I would share with those who had none; if I truly did not have enough, I would not force myself to give. I did not chase every outward mark of spotless conduct, nor fuss over petty displays of “integrity,” but only tried not to fall below what ordinary people call a decent, humane standard.

Sometimes ordinary folk from the neighborhood brought wine and food when they visited. Even when we were not really of the same sort, I did not refuse; when a chance came to return the kindness, I need not do it at once. I have said that someone who would not accept food from a brother, or someone who was excessively scrupulous about cleanliness with close guests, were mostly hypocritical bids for reputation—not the breadth of spirit suited to governing a state.

I especially detest people who ignore righteousness and duty: they will not work diligently at farming and sericulture, the honest means of living, yet grasp at dishonest profit. Those who preside over local reputation and selection treat appointments like merchandise and take thank-you payments; men of power lift restrictions on talisman mandates, documents, and similar business in exchange for cash.

Some people accept bribes from criminals; some side with the opponent even when the other party is clearly in the right; some turn their homes into hideouts for fugitives and support men who live outside the law. Some abandon their proper occupation and chase unjust, illegal gain. Those in charge of local moral appraisal sell places on the nomination lists and take thank-you payments; the powerful use exemptions from household registers and string-pulling to extort money.

Some privately command common people and keep them from fulfilling public labor duties; some forcibly take goods and money, then profit by reselling at inflated prices; some monopolize shops and seize the livelihoods of ordinary people; some encroach on others’ fields and plunder the property of the weak and alone. In official circles they fawn and wait for chances to profit—inwardly to show off to wives and concubines, outwardly to win reputation and office. People like that I do not associate with.

For that reason worldly people resent me, feeling that I get in their way, and they naturally keep their distance and break off contact. So in the lanes there are no tracks of visiting carriages and horses; in the hall there are no guests whose aims differ from mine; in the courtyard one could even spread a net to catch birds, and the tables and seats are thick with dust.

From the time I understood things until I was nearly old, I never spoke of others’ faults in my mouth, nor discussed their private affairs—this came from my nature. Even when servants had shortcomings or things they were ashamed to have known, I did not use them for mockery. I never judged people as superior or inferior, and I did not like to criticize whom others befriended. When elders sometimes pressed me with questions and I could not refuse, if I had to speak of someone I would only mention what was good in him; when commenting on writings I would only pick out what was well done, not point out flaws and defects. Therefore I never incurred resentment through slander or praise.

When eminent people sometimes asked me what a certain official or commoner was like, if I met someone who was upright, lofty, calm in conduct, and capable, I would speak of what was admirable in him; if I met someone who was greedy, cruel, muddled, and incompetent, I would reply that I did not know him well. Because I was always so careful of others, I was often rebuked and said to be overly protective, unable to distinguish good from bad clearly. Yet I never dared change this way of acting.

I often see people in the world enjoy judging others, sorting and comparing them, yet their assessments are not necessarily fair. When they praise or disparage someone, they often lose sight of proper standards. Those who are praised tend to feel they deserved it anyway and may not believe it reflects real virtue; those who are slighted may hate the critic as fiercely as a blood enemy. Ge Hong took this as a warning and afterward stopped commenting on scholars. Even when speaking of kin and juniors in the clan, he left appraisal to local elders and kin groups and did not lightly rank people as high or low.

Some mocked Ge Hong for this. He replied: “My own situation ought to be easier to know. If someone asked me to compare myself with people of old or my contemporaries and pick someone I could stand beside, I would not really know who I could match; how much less can I judge others who are not me?

In the late Han, morals decayed and factional cliques formed. Xu Zizhang and others brought disaster on themselves through their words; disputes over reputation even turned families into enemies. So fixed reputations for people in Runan ceased, and the practice arose of appraising figures on the first of each month—the so-called “first-of-the-month judgment.” Emperor Wu of Wei (Cao Cao) also hated this custom and wanted Xu Zizhang’s life; Xu fled in all directions and nearly died. That lesson from the past is not far off and is warning enough.

Besides, people are hard to know in the first place—even fathers and elder brothers cannot fully know their sons and younger brothers by analogy alone. Are those who agree with me necessarily right? Are those who differ necessarily wrong? Some start well and end badly; even sages such as Tang Yao, the Duke of Zhou, Confucius, and Ji Zha fell short in some respects. Ordinary people, with shallow views and eyes no brighter than a flickering candle, rashly judge others—is that not measuring ancient sages and great worthies by oneself?

In the Da’an era, Shi Bing rose in rebellion; people across six provinces formed factions and sided with wrongdoers and rebels. The commander-in-chief of the loyal army summoned Ge Hong to serve as Commandant of Troops (a field officer who led soldiers), pressing him repeatedly to accept the post.

When Ge Hong’s homeland came under attack by enemy forces, disaster was grave and anxiety ran deep. Mindful of the ancient ethic of rushing to aid those in peril, yet also wary of military law, he did not dare act on personal impulse alone. He recruited several hundred men and led them to campaign with the combined armies.

On one occasion they assaulted a deputy commander in the enemy ranks. After the enemy was routed, coins and silk piled up like hills and precious objects covered the ground. The various units threw down their weapons one after another to grab loot, until front and rear of the columns were linked in disorder. Only Ge Hong kept his own troops under strict discipline and forbade anyone to leave the ranks without orders; if someone picked up plunder, Ge Hong had him beheaded as a warning, so that no one dared abandon his arms. Sure enough, several hundred enemy soldiers who had lain in ambush suddenly burst out and struck the allied forces. The other armies had already scattered; soldiers and horses were laden with booty and had no will to fight, so panic spread, the dead and wounded lay everywhere, and it was nearly impossible to regroup. Only Ge Hong’s force held its formation, battle-ready and intact, and even helped rescue the others from catastrophic defeat—Ge Hong contributed greatly to that outcome.

In a later battle Ge Hong killed an enemy junior officer and took many heads, which he presented at headquarters as a report of victory. The chief commander thereupon granted him the title General Who Quells the Waves (Fubo jiangjun) and, according to custom, rewarded him with a hundred bolts of cloth. Many officers hid their share or sent it home; Ge Hong divided his among his soldiers and also used it to relieve poor relatives and friends. The ten bolts that remained he spent at once on meat and wine to entertain officers and clerks. At the time people privately praised this fine deed he had accomplished in a single day.

After the fighting subsided, Ge Hong laid aside his weapons, removed his armor, and went straight to Luoyang, intending to search widely for rare books, and never spoke of his military achievements. In his heart he admired Lu Zhonglian, who refused the gold of Liaocheng, and Shen Baoxu, who declined reward after saving the state of Chu—he held that not claiming merit after success was the way of righteousness.

Just then the court fell into great turmoil and the roads north were cut off. Chen Min also rebelled in the lands south of the Yangzi, blocking the way home. By chance his old friend Ji Judao of Qiao was appointed governor of Guangzhou and memorialized the throne to have Ge Hong serve as his aide. Ge Hong disliked the post, but thinking that travel south could offer refuge from chaos, he accepted with reluctance. The court ordered him to go ahead and press for troop movements; Ji Judao was later killed, and Ge Hong remained in Guangzhou. After that, one military commander after another invited him to take office, and he declined every time.

I often reflected that wealth and rank might be pursued step by step, yet could not be grasped all at once; and that the petty, exhausting business of seeking them was enough to drain one’s mind and heart. To escape such entanglements, perhaps one could go south—so I set out reluctantly. Later I received marching orders and went ahead to hurry the troops along, but met with disaster on the road and therefore remained in Guangzhou. Several times regional commanders invited me to take office, and each time I declined.

I also reflected that wealth and rank can only be sought gradually, not won in a single stroke; the bustle of chasing them is enough to wear a person out. Glory, rank, and the gains of power and profit are like things held only while one is lodged somewhere—they are not truly one’s own for long, and once lost they cannot be held back. Those whose fame towers high will in time fall; power that burns the hand will in time cool, like spring blossoms that soon fade. Why rejoice when they are gained? Why grieve when they are lost? In the pursuit come regret and vexation without end, together with worry, fear, and trembling caution—more than words can tell—and it is simply not worth it.

Besides, I know my temperament is slow and yielding, and my ability very limited. With such a nature and such talent, even if one bows low and runs through wind and dust in the world’s affairs, success is not assured—still less gaining name and position on any scale while escaping harm. How much less could I, who was never fit for it in the first place? Better to follow the way of Song and Qiao—the immortals Chisongzi and Wangziqiao. That path is in one’s own hands and does not depend on others. I mean to climb the famous peaks and nourish life through regimen and cultivation; that is not to cast off every duty, only that human strength cannot do everything at once. Unless one truly releases worldly business, how can one cultivate the mysterious, pure, and still Way?

To grasp the truth is genuinely hard, and one ought not be sparing in seeking instruction and debate. So my carriage does not enter cities where the powerful cluster, and my letters do not pass between the houses of men in office. Yet among scholars I cannot wholly avoid contact; when guests come to my door, my heart finds it hard to turn them away—and that obstructs single-minded practice. Because I could not devote myself entirely to what I intended, I sighed and said, “In the mountains and forests there is no Dao.” Yet the ancients who cultivated the Way did enter the mountains and forests—precisely to leave clamor behind and keep the spirit from being disturbed.

Now I intend to carry out my original resolve, leave my homeland, and go to Mount Song, following in the footsteps of Fangping and Liang Gong, and I have already written the inner and outer chapters of my Zishu beforehand.

Having already invested the effort, I will for the time being compile and arrange my writings once more and leave them for those who come after me.

The poems, rhapsodies, and miscellaneous prose I wrote at fifteen or sixteen I then took to be fairly good. When I was about twenty and read them over carefully, I found much that did not satisfy me. That was probably not because my natural gift had grown, but because I had read more widely and could better tell strong writing from weak. I then revised heavily: for every ten pieces I discarded, I kept fewer than one.

Apart from the books in my zi (master’s writings) series, my other manuscripts still amounted to more than a hundred scrolls. I still had not fully mastered the principles of what to add, cut, or keep, and I was often weighed down by mood and had no leisure to revise and polish at length. Many people are content as soon as they have finished a piece; I am slow by nature and do not dare show my work lightly. Each time I change a single character, I feel the piece is somewhat better than before—yet I still worry that the language is immature and that much of it has never been reworked again and again.

In my twenties I felt that writing scattered short pieces wasted my years, and that it would be better to establish a systematic teaching of my own; so I began to compile my zi books. Soon afterward war broke out; I was uprooted and wandered, and many drafts were lost. I was also constantly on the road for more than ten years and could not continue that work.

Only in the Jianwu era did I bring the project to a settled form: the Inner Chapters in twenty scrolls and the Outer Chapters in fifty; one hundred scrolls of stele inscriptions, eulogies, poems, and rhapsodies; and thirty scrolls of military writings, battle proclamations, dispatches, memorials to the throne, notes, and letters. Besides these, I compiled the Biographies of Immortals in ten scrolls—figures rarely recorded among the people—and the Biographies of Recluses in ten scrolls, devoted to eminent men who refused office. I also gathered passages from the Five Classics, the Seven Histories, and the various masters, together with material on warfare, formulas and techniques, miscellaneous learning, and rare esoteric methods—three hundred and ten scrolls in all, with a separate catalogue.

My Inner Chapters treat immortals, medical prescriptions, transformations of ghosts and spirits, nurturing life and extending years, rites to avert evil and avoid disaster, and belong to the Daoist tradition. My Outer Chapters discuss gain and loss in human affairs and the good and ill of worldly events, and belong to the Confucian tradition.

When I read Emperor Wen of Wei’s “Discourse on Literature” in his Classicist Treatise, I noticed that in speaking of himself he did not mention such pastimes as chess-like games or swordplay; I therefore wished to say briefly something about what I myself have practiced and understood.

I truly have no special talents worth boasting about, and I should not praise myself without cause. Here I will speak only of what I do not know well. I, Ge Hong, am slow by nature and dull in temperament, with few hobbies in daily life.

From the classics of ancient emperors to autobiographical writings, I have read widely, yet I have never touched games like throwing tiles or hand-to-hand wrestling; I will speak only in general terms of what I do know. I truly have no special talents worth boasting about, and I should not praise myself without cause. Here I will speak only of what I do not know well. I, Ge Hong, am slow by nature and dull in temperament, with few hobbies in daily life.

From childhood until my hair was first tied up, I was worse than other children at throwing tiles or wrestling. I never cock-fought or duck-fought, never rode horses or walked dogs; when I saw others perform tricks, I would not even look. If someone dragged me to watch, I had no interest at all, as if asleep in broad daylight.

So even now I do not know how many lines are on a chessboard, nor what pieces are used in chupu (an ancient dice game). I believe such low-grade skills disturb the mind and waste time: officials who play them neglect their duties; scholars abandon lecturing and reading; common people forget to farm; merchants miss business and lose goods.

Before win or loss is decided, players quarrel in the streets, anxious in heart and pained in face. People call this pleasure, but it truly torments body and mind. It makes people lose shame and encourages rivalry; some secretly bear grudges over money won or lost. In the past, Duke Min of Song and the crown prince of Wu both met violent death and rebellion through gambling; seven states were nearly destroyed and the court almost endangered. These past events warn later ages with lessons clear enough.

Whenever I see people at play, shame and anger mix in my heart. Some come to blows, some curse; friendships break and bonds are harmed—this happens often. Resentment, great or small, can bring regret and loss; it is truly not worth it.

Confucius warned against sleeping by day; but comparing myself, I do not think daytime sleep is worse than gambling. Why? Daytime sleep merely does no good—it does not invite resentment or strife. The sage wore out the leather thongs of his bamboo slips many times, studying the classics with diligence; ordinary people’s talents are limited—how can they do everything at once? No game is better than picking up a book a foot long and reading. So I never liked these games and never played them; that is probably what worldly people love and cherish.

From childhood I studied archery, but I lacked the strength to draw a powerful bow like that of Yangu. I believed that archery was one of the Six Arts (the six skills ancient gentlemen were expected to master) and could also be used to protect oneself, ward off danger, and hunt birds and game, so I practiced it. When I served in the army in the past, I once shot at pursuing cavalry with my own hand; as soon as the arrow left the string, the man fell. I killed two enemies and one horse, and thereby escaped death.

I also learned the use of sword and shield, single sword, and paired halberds. These martial skills all had formulas and essential points for use against enemies. Some methods were transmitted in secret, so ingenious as to seem almost miraculous. With such abilities, facing someone who knew nothing of martial arts, one could fight alone with full confidence; wherever one went, none could stand in the way. In my later years I also learned techniques with a seven-foot staff; it is said one could enter among blades and seize an opponent’s great halberd. Yet these were ultimately minor skills of no great importance; knowing them is like knowing the horn of the qilin or the claws of the phoenix—one may never need to use them. I did not know this in the past.

From childhood I had a firm resolve never to take office. Whenever I read the biographies of Chaofu, Xuyou, Zizhou, Beiren, Shihu, the two Jiangs, the two Yuans, Fazhen, and Zilong, I would set down the book and lean forward, admiring their conduct. I intended to devote myself to studying and collating the Five Classics and then to write a book on the Masters, so that posterity would know me only as a learned Confucian.

Later, the provincial authorities and the General of Chariots and Cavalry summoned me to office, but I never responded. Someone recommended my name to the princely mansion of the Prince of Langye. I had once joined the righteous army; after the rebellion was pacified I had not reported my achievements to the authorities, so I never expected reward. The Prince of Jin followed Heaven’s mandate and the people’s will, quelled disorder and restored order, rescued a nearly broken imperial line, and revived suspended ancestral rites; he also remembered un rewarded merit from the previous reign and wished thereby to encourage those who came after. I went to answer the summons as required. On the gengyin day, an imperial edict granted me the rank of Marquis of Guannei and a fief of two hundred households in Jurong. At first I had merely obeyed the edict to suppress bandits and aid my homeland; I did not think my service worth recording. The appointment with golden seal and purple cord was not what I had sought in the beginning.

I had originally wished to admire Lu Zhonglian from afar and to take Tian Chou as my nearby model; I therefore submitted a memorial firmly declining appointment, hoping to fulfill my wish for a modest, detached life. The court, however, followed established practice, and others in my situation were likewise not permitted to decline.

In the past, Zhong You declined a reward he ought to have accepted and thereby obstructed a good deed. Today the external enemy is not yet pacified, affairs of state are numerous, and the realm must make rewards and punishments clear so that the law may be displayed. How could I, for the sake of preserving my own small and timid wish for lofty detachment, go against the broad and prevailing institutions of the state? I therefore set aside my intention to decline and respectfully accepted the imperial command.

I, Ge Hong, have written an essay entitled “Self-Narration.” Some have objected: “In former times Wang Chong, having reached sixty without hope of office and with his path cut off, feared that his person and name would perish together; hence at the end of his writings he recorded himself. The Master is still in his prime and lives in a clear and well-governed age; the court is about to summon you with the ceremony used for Duke Shen’s gift of silk, that you may enter court in a carriage trimmed with rushes; you will display your literary talent at court and your fame will surpass Kunwu. Given this, why worry that your name will not be handed down, and instead, like an old man, busy yourself with recording yourself?”

Ge Hong replied: “Heaven and earth are vast and far; human life is like a sojourn. Morning-born, evening-dead fungi just show their brightness and soon wither—like spring flowers that bloom briefly and fall within ten days. Even a wind that sweeps the sky or a flash of lightning may not be shorter than a human life. A span of a hundred years still rushes like a meteor; white-haired elders pass like an arrow through a crack in the door. Some die young before dawn, like bamboo shoots cut down; others fade before autumn has come. Hence Xiangzi lamented unripe grain, and Yang Bird mourned early death.

“Looking back through past and present, outstanding men have risen on literary talent like dragons leaping, or held fast with martial prowess like tigers crouching. Their great achievements were entered in the covenant archives; their virtue and fame were carried in songs of praise. Though their bodies eventually sank and dissolved into the deep and the earth, fine words still circulate and are recorded day after day. Therefore, even after a thousand generations, people still look up to them.”

Because my natural endowment was mediocre and my understanding shallow, I sank for long years in disappointment and my circumstances lagged behind; my talents did not suit the times, and my conduct ran against the ways of the world. When I spoke, my words were like notes that did not harmonize with the common tune; even though my body must eventually be buried and dissolve in deep earth, my fair name would still travel far and be praised by later generations. Thus, even after a thousand generations, my reputation might still remain clear and honored.

Because my natural endowment was mediocre and my understanding shallow, I sank for long years in disappointment; my talents did not suit the times, and my conduct diverged from the world. The voice I raised did not accord with custom, and the steps I took did not match those of the multitude. Within, I had no powerful patrons like Jin Midi or Zhang Tang to lift me up; without, I had no friends who could mutually support me and recommend my name. Though the road was level, I had no fine steed like a qíjì to ride; though heaven and earth were vast, I had no wings like the great Peng bird.

I could neither spread my wings like a fierce eagle to establish merit and steady the state, nor make my kin illustrious or leave a lasting name. My name would not be entered in the fine histories, and my fame would not be cast on bells and tripods to pass down to later ages. Therefore, in the intervals left by my other writings, I composed this self-account. Though it cannot alter whether I remain in obscurity or rise to prominence, I still hope that someone in later times may record me.

End of Volume Fifty of the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi.