《淮南鸿烈解》Vol. 5

The Pot Master regarded himself as part of Heaven and Earth: his spirit belonged to Heaven, and his body to Earth. After death, he would naturally return to his source. This is why it is said that he “held fast to Heaven and Earth.” Titles and wealth could not sway him; even when danger was at hand, he felt no fear. This shows that the Pot Master regarded life and death as equal.

When Ziqiu was fifty-four, he fell ill and his body became severely bent. His back rose above his head, his chest and belly were pressed up near his chin, and his legs ended up above his body. He crawled to a well to look at his reflection and exclaimed, “How wondrous is the transformation of things! It has turned me into this!” This shows that he took changes in bodily appearance as calmly as he took life and death.

Seeing Yao abdicate the throne in favor of Shun made it clear that the world was not worth taking too seriously. Seeing Yu’s ambitions showed that, in his eyes, the world was also very small: he regarded power and rank as no more valuable than a lizard. Once we understand the Pot Master’s teaching, we know that life and death can be regarded as equal. And seeing how Ziqiu faced changes in his body, we know that changes in appearance, too, can be taken calmly.

The perfected person who has attained the Dao relies on an unshakable foundation and walks a path without obstruction. With an inner treasure that can be drawn upon without end, and the inexhaustible Dao as their teacher, wherever they go, all is smooth and free. Life gives their heart no cause for attachment, and death cannot distress their spirit. Whether bending or stretching, looking down or up, they accept their fate and remain at ease. No matter how fortune and misfortune, benefit and harm, shift and change, they are not troubled. Such a person preserves their true nature and vital essence, shedding an old form as a cicada leaves its shell or a snake its skin, and roaming in the Great Clarity, the Daoist realm of pure emptiness. Light of body, they travel alone, suddenly entering the hidden realm. Even the phoenix cannot be compared with them, much less the weak quail. How could power, status, or salary sway their resolve?

Yan Zi, whose name was Ying and whose courtesy name was Pingzhong, did not abandon his principles in the face of death. After Cui Zhu killed Duke Zhuang of Qi, he forced people to swear allegiance to him. Yan Zi declared that he would obey only the principles of loyalty to the ruler and service to the state, and so would not be coerced by force. Qi warriors Qiliang and Huazhou went to attack Ju. The people of Ju respected them and offered them generous gifts to persuade them to stop fighting, but they held to their course and died in battle. They could be stopped by appeals to principle, but not swayed by profit. A gentleman who dies for what is right will not change his integrity out of fear of death. If they could not be moved by anything external when acting only for principle, how much less could a person who practices Wuwei be moved?

Yao did not consider possession of the world an honor, so he yielded it to Shun. Jizha, the prince of Wu known as the Master of Yanling, did not regard possession of the state as glory, so he declined the throne. Zihan did not treat jade as a treasure, so he refused a precious jade offered to him. The man presenting it said that a jade worker had examined the stone and pronounced it a treasure. Zihan replied, “I treasure freedom from greed; you treasure jade. If I accept it, we will both lose our treasures.” He later made proper arrangements for the man who had brought the jade and had the jade worker refine it, so the man could return home safely. Wuguang, too, would not compromise what was right in order to stay alive, so he took a stone in his arms and plunged into an abyss. According to legend, after King Tang overthrew Jie of Xia, he tried to yield the world to Wuguang. Some believed that Wuguang might be saddled with the disgrace of Tang’s regicide, so he drowned himself in the abyss.

From this we can see that those who are truly noble are respected for their lofty De, not for their titles. Xu You and Wuguang were such people. Those who are truly wealthy do not depend on possessions. Jieyu of Chu was known to the king for his virtue, and the king sent someone with a large sum of money to offer him the post of minister, but Jieyu refused. The world is vast, yet Yao could yield it to another; one’s own life is so close and dear, yet Wuguang was willing to give it up. What else in the world, then, is worth claiming for oneself? This is what it means to be free from entanglement with external things.

When we grasp the depth of Dao and De in the words of the perfected, then look at the conduct of ordinary people, many of their struggles seem shameful. Understand Xu You’s intentions, and the schemes in the writings of the Duke of Zhou and the Grand Duke to seize the throne no longer seem worth esteeming. When we see that Jizha of Yanling refused the state of Wu, those who fight over border fields feel ashamed. When we see that Zihan coveted no precious jade, those who scramble over contracts feel ashamed. When we see that Wuguang refused to be tainted by worldly ways, those who chase profit and cling to life at any cost feel they have nowhere to hide. Without understanding the Great Way, one cannot know that life is not something to cling to greedily. Without hearing words that open the way to understanding, one cannot know that the world is not worth coveting.

At a village shrine in some remote lane, people beat basins and tap roof tiles, singing in response to one another and believing themselves happy. If they heard great drums and huge bells instead, they would find the sounds of basins and tiles crude and laughable. To collect only the Book of Poetry and the Book of Documents and study their writings, without understanding the purpose of the Great Way, is like being able only to beat basins and tiles. Those who set their sights on the world are like people seeking the finer music of great drums and huge bells.

Power and rich profits are things people covet. But if someone were made to hold in one hand the maps and authority of the whole world, and cut their own throat with the other, even a fool would not do it. This shows that life is more precious than the world. The sage seeks only enough food to sustain life and enough clothing to cover the body. They satisfy the needs of their nature and seek nothing extra. Lacking the world does not damage their natural disposition, and possessing it does not make them more content than they were before. Whether they possess the world or not makes no essential difference to them.

It is like giving someone grain from the great granary at Ao and water from a river: when hungry, they eat grain; when thirsty, they drink water. What enters their belly is only a meal or a ladleful. Their eating does not diminish the great granary, and their drinking does not dry up the river. Possessing these things does not make them any fuller; lacking them does not make them any hungrier. The principle is just as if they were drawing grain from their own storehouse and water from their own well: in substance, there is no difference.

When a person becomes intensely angry, they damage Yin Qi; excessive joy depletes Yang Qi. This has already been discussed earlier. Deep anxiety can throw the heart into turmoil; excessive fear can drive a person mad. Clear away what is unclean, cast off what weighs you down, and become so calm it is as though you have never departed from your root. Then you can reach the great Dao.

Let the eyes be clear, but do not cling to seeing. Let the ears be quiet, and do not cling to hearing. Keep the mouth closed and let the heart remain free of thought’s demands. Set aside cleverness and return to your unadorned nature; gather your spirit and do not become absorbed in clever schemes or past experience. Be awake yet seem unaware; be alive yet seem as if dead. In the end, return to the root that existed before life began and merge with transformation itself—that is, regard life and death as one.

Those forced to labor raise their hoes and swing their shovels, filling baskets with earth. Sweat streams down like salt water, and their throats tighten as they gasp for breath. At such a moment, if they can rest for a while in the shade of a tree and let body and mind relax, they feel joy. A sick person with a mass in the abdomen clutches the chest and presses the belly, curled up through the night and unable to sleep. If at last they manage a peaceful night’s rest, their relatives and brothers rejoice too. From this we can see that the vastness of the cosmos cannot use life and death to coerce someone who understands the Dao. One who knows the art of nourishing life cannot be confined by the powers of the world. One who has experienced the peace that precedes birth will not be frightened by death. And one who knows that Xu You’s nobility surpassed Shun’s will not covet possessions.

A standing wall is not as good as falling down and returning to its original state; ice is not as good as melting. How much more so before a wall was built or ice formed at all? All things take form from the formless, then return from form to the formless. They change in an unceasing cycle with no beginning, and no one knows where change first arises. Without understanding the principles within and beyond, who can be free of likes and dislikes? The Dao is so vast that nothing lies beyond its outermost bounds, and so minute that nothing lies beyond its innermost depths; yet it is everywhere. Whoever can grasp this vast and subtle Dao can find a way through wherever they go.

Scholars in decadent times pursue the branches of learning without asking about the heart and nature, and do not study the ancient classics; they seek only fame. They embellish their natural dispositions and suppress their genuine feelings to accommodate social conventions. When their eyes want to look, rules forbid it; when their hearts take pleasure in something, ritual restrains them. Their steps, movements, and bows are so stiff they seem made of wood. They abstain from meat and wine. They bind the body from the outside and force down their nature from within, disrupting the harmony of Yin and Yang and going against the nature of life. Thus they spend their lives in sorrow and decline.

Those who understand the great Dao are different. They regulate their dispositions and cultivate the heart, nourish body and mind with equanimity, and preserve their nature through moderation. They delight in the Dao and do not grieve over low status; they are at ease in De and do not suffer from poverty. They do not force themselves to pursue what their nature does not desire, nor chase perverse pleasures their hearts dislike. They do not let anything that harms their dispositions damage their De, and they do not let stray thoughts disturb what suits their nature. In this way they give body and mind room to unfold and follow their nature while still observing proper measure; they can serve as a model for all under Heaven.

Today’s Confucians do not investigate the roots of desire; they merely forbid people to want what they want. They do not ask where true joy comes from; they simply suppress joy altogether. This is like opening the source of a river and then trying to hold back its waters with your hands. How could that work? Governing the people is like tending animals. If you fail to secure their pens and let their wild nature run unchecked, then try to restrict their movement only by tying their feet, how can you expect them to be healthy and live long?

Yan Hui, Zilu, Zixia, and Ran Boniu were all disciples of Confucius, yet each suffered misfortune: Yan Yuan died young, Zilu was killed in the state of Wei, Zixia went blind, and Ran Boniu fell ill. These experiences show that suppressing one’s nature and going against one’s feelings makes it difficult to keep body and mind in harmony. Zixia once told Zengzi that when he went out and saw a life of wealth and status, he longed for it; when he returned home, he also loved the Way of the former kings. The two thoughts struggled within him, and he grew thin. Later, the Way of the former kings prevailed. No longer bewitched by wealth and status, he kept his spirit within himself, and his body gradually filled out. But he had merely suppressed his desires and restrained himself with moral principles. His heart remained knotted, his body and mind were exhausted, and in the end he could not enjoy the full span of his life.

The perfected person—one who has reached a profound state—eats only to satisfy hunger, dresses only for comfort, and acts only as feels comfortable. They do not covet the wealth of the world or treat the myriad things as sources of gain. They dwell in a spacious, luminous realm and roam the boundless wilderness, relying on the Great One, the root state of the Dao, and holding Heaven and Earth as though they were in the palm of a hand. How could they be swayed by poverty or wealth, fatness or thinness? Confucians cannot make people free of desire and pleasure; they can only restrain them with righteousness and ritual. But making everyone under Heaven fear punishment and dare not steal—how can that compare with making people have no wish to steal in the first place?

The people of Yue regard the hairy snake as a rare delicacy, while people of the Central Plains see it as worthless and would throw it away if they found one. When greedy people know that something is useless, they too will give it up; when they do not know it is useless, even an upright person may refuse to let it go. When rulers bring their states to ruin and their ancestral altars to destruction, die at the hands of others, and become a laughingstock under Heaven, it is often because they covet what they desire.

The ruler of Chouyu coveted a great bell and accepted a bribe sent by Jin, opening a road for them. The Jin army took advantage of this and destroyed Chouyu. The Duke of Yu coveted the fine jade of Chuiji and the fine horses of Quchan. He lent Jin a road to attack Guo; after Jin destroyed Guo, it returned and attacked Yu, and Yu too was destroyed. Duke Xian of Jin became enamored of the beauty of Li Ji, killed the heir apparent, and installed a younger son, bringing turmoil upon four generations. Duke Huan of Qi coveted the delicacies prepared by Yi Ya and entrusted him with power. Later, five princes fought over the succession, and Duke Huan’s body lay unburied for a long time after his death. The Hu king became infatuated with music performed by women and refused to heed advice; Qin consequently seized his best lands. If these five rulers had restrained their desires, discarded what they did not need, taken their own nature as their guide, and avoided being bewitched by external things, how could such disasters have happened?

When an arrow misses its mark, the fault does not lie with the arrow itself; someone learning archery need not make arrow repair a special task. When a carriage will not move, the fault does not lie with the reins; someone learning to drive need not make reins a special project. Once you know that using a fan in winter and wearing a fur coat in summer do you no good, the transformations of things will no longer bewilder you. Pouring hot water onto hot water will not stop it boiling; to understand the root of the problem, you need only remove the fire. Sha is another word for a fan.

This concludes Juan Twelve of the Huainan Honglie Jie.

The following are textual notes recording additions and corrections to the wording in different editions: based on the Jiji edition, the omitted character “Min,” the two characters “zhi zai,” and the character “he” have been restored. The mistaken characters “ta,” “mian,” “liu,” “zi,” “you,” “gan,” and “wang” have been corrected to “ye,” “xue,” “tian,” “yu,” “zuo,” “huo,” and “wu,” respectively.

Juan Thirteen of the Huainan Honglie Jie, recorded above by Xu Shen, minister and libationer to the Grand Commandant.

In the title “Benjing Xun,” “ben” means origin, and “jing” means enduring principle. “The Heavenly Principle” refers to the patterns governing the movement of Heaven and Earth and the generation of all things; these all derive from the Dao. The causes of order and disorder in governance, and of gain and loss, each follow enduring principles. Hence the chapter is called “Benjing,” and this principle serves as its title.

In the beginning of the Great Clarity, the world was harmonious, peaceful, and still. “Great Clarity” here refers to the beginning of rule through Wuwei (non-action). In the age of the Three Sovereigns, people followed the way of Heaven, did not go against nature or harm living things, and were not troubled by government. Human nature was innocent and plain, easygoing and calm, without restlessness. Their inner selves accorded with the Dao, and their outward conduct with what was right: with few desires in the heart, one could accord with the Dao; by acting within proper bounds, one could act appropriately.

Their actions followed natural patterns, and they worked swiftly in ways that benefited all things. Their words were concise and reasonable; their conduct was unhurried and responsive to circumstances. Their hearts were content and sincere, and their work was plain, without ornament. They therefore had no need to choose auspicious days or divine good and ill fortune, to plan in advance where to begin, or to decide deliberately how to end. They rested when things were settled and acted when circumstances moved them.

Such people were connected in body and mind with Heaven and Earth, shared the same Qi with Yin-Yang, moved in harmony with the four seasons, shone brightly like the sun and moon, and were in accord with the transformations of Heaven and Earth. Heaven then spread its De over all things, while Earth bore and nurtured them. The seasons followed their proper order; wind and rain brought no violent harm; the sun and moon shone clear, and the Five Planets each followed their courses.

In that age, the original Qi of Heaven and Earth flowed vigorously, and the ruler’s benevolence spread in every direction. Phoenixes and qilin came to the court; divining stalks and tortoise shells revealed auspicious signs; sweet dew descended, bamboo seeds grew abundant, flowing yellow jade appeared, and red grass grew. These were all auspicious portents. People’s hearts, too, were free of cunning and deceit.

In times of decline, people bored into mountains in search of gold and jade, carved them into objects, split open shellfish to find pearls, and smelted copper and iron. As a result, living things could no longer flourish. When people cut open pregnant animals and killed their young, the qilin ceased to appear; when they overturned nests and broke eggs, the phoenix no longer came. People drilled wood to make fire, built platforms from timber, burned forests to hunt, and drained ponds and marshes to catch fish. Their tools were insufficient, yet their storehouses were full of hoarded goods. Although all things sprouted, laid eggs, and carried young, more than half failed to reach maturity.

People piled up earth to make mounds, fertilized the soil and planted grain, dug wells, and diverted rivers for their own convenience. They built walls to strengthen their defenses and captured wild animals to keep in captivity. Yin-Yang fell out of balance, the seasons lost their order, and thunder, lightning, and hail brought calamity. Fog, snow, frost, and freezing weather came without end, and living things withered and died before their time. People cleared weeds, marked out field boundaries, and cut back wild growth; crops sprouted and formed ears, yet countless plants withered and died after sprouting, flowering, and bearing fruit.

Next, people built towering palaces and houses with overhanging roofs, carved and decorated the eaves and roof corners, arranged designs of lotus and water chestnut, and covered everything in a profusion of bright colors. Roof beams and other parts twisted and crossed, and the decoration was intricate and elaborate. Even master craftsmen such as Gongshu Ban and Wang Er had no further room to display their skill, yet these splendid buildings still could not satisfy the ruler’s desires.

Thus plants that could withstand the cold, such as pines, cypresses, fungi, and bamboo, withered in summer, reflecting a ruler’s untimely actions and the disorder of Yin-Yang. Rivers ran dry and stopped flowing; yi-yang, an uncanny manifestation of the earth spirit, appeared in the countryside; locusts and other flying insects swarmed everywhere; drought split the land, the phoenix no longer descended, and fierce birds and beasts grew savage. The people lived in cramped, shabby dwellings, with no room even to put up visitors. So many people died of cold and hunger that their bodies lay piled together.

Later, people divided up the boundaries of mountains, rivers, streams, and valleys, and allocated land according to population. They built walls and dug moats, and set up mechanisms and traps for defense. They divided official positions, established ranks of dress, distinguished noble from lowly and worthy from foolish, recorded praise and blame, and imposed rewards and punishments. War then arose, and rivalry followed. The people suffered forced labor and untimely death; rulers harmed the innocent and punished those who were guiltless. These calamities arose from the same causes.

When Heaven and Earth join in harmony, the Qi of Yin and Yang brings forth the myriad things. All things grow by relying on the breath of human beings. Only when the Qi of Heaven and Earth is in harmony do Yin and Yang arise and the myriad things take shape. Thus, when those above and below are divided and out of accord, Qi rises in vaporous currents; when ruler and ministers are at odds, crops cannot grow.

Forty-six days before the winter solstice, Heaven contains harmonious Qi, but it has not yet descended. The breath gathers within, not yet spreading outward. From the beginning of winter to the winter solstice, the Qi of Heaven and Earth has not yet stirred. The Qi of Yin and Yang gathers within itself, breathing slowly, flowing and spreading everywhere, embracing the customs of the world. Here, “chu yu” describes a slow unfolding, as if nothing had yet come into being; it also conveys breadth and grandeur. “Jin tan” means vast and far-reaching. Yin and Yang harmonize the differences among things, allowing each to find its proper place. They blend and mature together, and so all living things can grow.

Thus, killing energy appearing in spring and flourishing growth in autumn, thunder in winter and frost in summer—all arise from Qi that runs counter to the proper seasons. From this we can see that the cosmos of Heaven and Earth is like a human body: the body may serve as a metaphor for Heaven and Earth, and all within the six directions—above, below, and the four quarters—lies within the reach of human governance and influence. Those who understand their nature are not frightened by anomalies in Heaven and Earth; those able to examine signs and portents are not bewildered by strange events. The sage infers what is far away from what is close at hand, and sees the countless differences as one whole.

In ancient times, people shared the same Qi as Heaven and Earth and lived freely, in accord with the conditions of their age. No one sought profit through celebration; there was no threat of punishment, nor rules of ritual, righteousness, integrity, and shame. People did not speak of praise or blame, benevolence or baseness. Yet the people did not harm or deceive one another, or act with violence. It was as though they still dwelt within the vast, deep “obscurity”—the realm of the Dao.

In times of decline, the population grew while goods became scarce. People labored hard, yet still lacked enough to sustain themselves, and so conflict arose and benevolence was praised. People’s conduct became uneven; they formed factions for private gain, devised schemes, and cultivated cleverness, losing their unspoiled nature. Thus righteousness was praised. The emotions of Yin and Yang stir responses in the blood and Qi; men and women lived together without boundaries, and so ritual was promoted to mark distinctions. Human feelings and desires ran unchecked, pressing upon one another without coming into willing accord, and so music was praised as a means of harmonizing people’s hearts.

Benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music can therefore be used to remedy decline, but they are not the highest means of bringing fundamental order to the world. Benevolence calms conflict; righteousness corrects faults; ritual restrains excess; music dispels sorrow. If the way of the spirit were settled throughout the world, people’s hearts would return to their beginnings and the people’s nature would be pure and good. If Heaven and Earth, through Yin and Yang, could once more embrace and nourish them, goods would be plentiful and everyone would have enough. Greed, baseness, and conflict would then have no grounds to arise. From this, we can see that benevolence and righteousness would have no need to be put into practice.

When De is settled throughout the world and the people are unspoiled, they are not deluded by colors or captivated by sounds. They can sing seated on the ground and wander with their hair loose. Even the beauty of Mao Qiang and Xi Shi would not move them; even the feather dance and King Wu of Zhou’s “Wu Xiang” music would not delight them. Unrestrained conduct and relations between men and women without distinction would not arise. From this, we can see that ritual and music would have no need to be enacted.

Only after De declined did benevolence arise; only after conduct deteriorated was righteousness established. Only when harmony was lost did people need to regulate it with musical pitch; only when ritual became excessive did they attend to outward appearance. Understanding the way of the spirit reveals that establishing benevolence and righteousness beneath De is not fundamental. Understanding De reveals that benevolence and righteousness are not necessary practices of the constant Way. Understanding benevolence and righteousness reveals that ritual and music are a still more peripheral layer. De is the root; benevolence and righteousness come next; ritual and music follow after them. To depart from the root in pursuit of branches, or abandon what is essential to cling to details, is not yet to understand the highest Dao.

The vastness of Heaven and Earth can be measured with a carpenter’s square and a gnomon, tools for measuring lengths and the sun’s shadow. The movements of the sun and moon can be calculated from the calendar. The sound of thunder can be imitated with bells and drums. Changes in wind and rain can be understood through musical pitches, because pitches reflect the changes of Yin and Yang. All things that are plainly visible in their vastness can be measured; things that are bright and apparent can be observed; sounds that can be heard can be tuned; colors that can be clearly seen can be distinguished.

Yet the greatest things are not wholly contained even by Heaven and Earth, and the subtlest principles cannot be fully fathomed even by the spirit. When people began to create musical pitches and calendars, distinguish clear and muddy sounds and colors, and tell sweet from bitter, the unadorned Dao was divided into all kinds of tools and techniques. Once benevolence and righteousness were established and ritual and music cultivated, De shifted from its true nature into artificial embellishment. After artifice appeared, people used cleverness to adorn themselves and bewilder the foolish, then devised deceitful means to gain advantage and mislead those above them. The world thus came to have rulers capable of controlling this situation, as well as rulers capable of bringing it to order: the former were the likes of Jie and Zhou, and the latter the likes of Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou.

In ancient times, when Cang Jie, the legendary creator of writing, invented characters, millet rained down from the heavens, and ghosts wept through the night. At first Cang Jie observed the tracks of crows and took inspiration from them. He created characters and established written records and contracts. Once writing appeared, deception and pretense also began to flourish. People gradually abandoned what mattered most and pursued lesser things: they gave up farming and turned to chasing small profits. Heaven knew that, if things continued this way, people would go hungry, so it sent down millet. The ghosts feared that writing would record their tracks, so they wept at night. Another account says it was rabbits that wept: they worried that people would make brushes from rabbit hair and thereby harm their bodies.

In ancient times, when Boyi, the legendary official skilled in flood control, invented the well, the dragons rose into the high clouds and the spirits took up residence in the Kunlun Mountains. Boyi served Shun and was the first to dig into the earth to draw water. The dragons foresaw that river valleys would be cleared and marshes opened up. Fearing disturbance, they rose into the clouds and moved the spirits to Kunlun. The more skills people acquire, the more easily their De (virtue and power) grows thin. For this reason, when the Zhou people cast a bronze vessel, they carved the image of Chui, a master craftsman from the time of Yao, biting his own finger. This showed that when technical skill reaches its extreme, it can go no further. Another explanation says that the Zhou people carved Chui’s image on the vessel as a warning to later generations not to pursue technical ingenuity without restraint.

When a person of utmost De governs the world, heart and spirit are at ease, and body and nature are in harmony. In stillness, De is expressed; in action, everything proceeds in accordance with its proper course. Such a person follows natural inclinations and acts in response to changes that cannot be avoided. With a clear mind and without contrivance, the world naturally comes into harmony. When desires are few and the spirit is untroubled, the people naturally remain simple. Without the pursuit of clever devices or auspicious omens, the people are not harmed; without conflict, they have what they need to live. Such a ruler embraces the world, and his kindness endures for generations, yet no one knows who brought it about. The Dao has no name and makes no deliberate arrangements. Everything simply happens of itself, which is why people do not know who is directing it.

Thus, the Perfected Person has no title in life and no posthumous name after death. They accumulate no wealth and establish no reputation. Those who give do not regard it as a kindness, and those who receive do not decline out of politeness: the giver simply relieves a lack, and the recipient accepts the help without reservation. De gathers together, yet no one owns it or keeps it for themselves. Where De gathers, the Dao cannot be damaged. What wisdom cannot comprehend cannot be explained through verbal argument. The reasoning that needs no words, the truth that needs no explanation: if someone can understand these, it is called the “Heavenly Treasury,” the treasure house of the Dao of Heaven. One may draw from it without diminishing it, or draw water from it without exhausting it, yet no one knows its source. This is called “Jade Radiance.” Jade Radiance usually refers to the seventh star of the Northern Dipper, said to revolve at the center, point toward the twelve double hours and the directions, set Yin-Yang in motion, and govern the growth and decline of all things. Another account holds that Jade Radiance is the visible form of harmonious Qi.

To relieve hardship and make up what is lacking is to earn a reputation for benevolence. To undertake beneficial works, remove calamities, put down rebellion, and stop violence is to establish merit. If there were no calamities in the world, even spirits would have no chance to show their kindness. If those above and below were in harmony, worthy people would have no occasion to establish merit.

In the age governed by Rongcheng, who was said to have lived in the time of the Yellow Emperor and devised the calendar, people lived in orderly rows along the roads, arranged by age. Infants could be left in nests, and surplus grain stored on rooftops. People could lead tigers and leopards by the tail and tread on venomous snakes, yet they did not know how this was possible; they simply thought it was the natural state of things.

In the age of Yao, ten suns appeared together. Crops were scorched, plants and trees withered, and the people had no food. Monsters such as Yayu, Zaichi, Jiuying, Dafeng, Fengxi, and Xiushé also preyed on the people. Yao sent Yi, the great archer, to deal with them. In the fields of Chouhua, Yi shot and killed Zaichi; by the waters of Xiong, he killed Jiuying; and in the marshes of Qingqiu, he shot Dafeng. He also shot down nine of the ten suns and killed Yayu. At Dongting, he cut down Xiushé; in the mulberry groves, he captured Fengxi. The people rejoiced and acclaimed Yao as Son of Heaven. From then on, roads throughout the land were measured and marked according to their width, difficulty, and distance.

During Shun’s reign, Gonggong, the official in charge of water, unleashed floods that advanced toward Kongsang. At that time, Longmen had not yet been cut through, and the waters at Lüliang had not yet been cleared. The Yangtze and Huai Rivers spilled across the land, and the whole world lay under water. The people could only flee to the hills and climb into trees. Shun therefore ordered Yu to clear the three rivers and five lakes, cut through Yique, guide the Chan and Jian Rivers, and put the roads and fields in order, so that the waters could flow freely into the Eastern Sea. The floods receded, the Nine Provinces dried out, and the people were able to settle in peace. For this reason, later generations praised Yao and Shun as sages.

In later times, rulers such as Jie and Zhou built the Jade Chamber, the Jade Terrace, long corridors decorated with ivory, and beds of jade, indulging in extravagant luxury. Zhou even made a garden of piled meat and a pond filled with wine. They exhausted the wealth of the realm and wore the people down with labor. Zhou cut open the chest of a remonstrating adviser and dissected the womb of a pregnant woman, bringing suffering to the people. Then Tang set out with three hundred chariots and attacked Jie at Nanchao, driving him into exile at Xiatai. King Wu led three thousand armored soldiers and defeated Zhou at Muye, where Zhou was killed. The world was thereby brought to order and the people lived in harmony, so later generations praised Tang and Wu as wise rulers.

From this we can see that those who earn the name of worthy sages must have endured the troubles of a chaotic age. Today, people of utmost De live amid disorder, bearing Dao and wisdom in their hearts but compelled to keep silent. Many end their lives in silence, yet no one in the world honors that silence.

“The Dao that can be spoken is not the constant Dao; the name that can be named is not the constant name.” The Dao that can be put into words is not the unchanging Dao, and a name that can be assigned is not an unchanging name. The name of a true person cannot be fixed in words. What is written on bamboo and silk, or carved into metal and stone for transmission to later generations, is only a rough trace of the Great Dao. The Five Emperors and Three Kings acted in different ways and followed different paths, yet their aims were the same: they all put benevolence and righteousness into practice. Later scholars fail to understand that the Great Dao is one and that the essentials of De are connected. Instead, they select stories about their predecessors, sit and debate, and sing and dance in praise of them. So even when they are widely learned and well informed, they cannot escape confusion.

The Book of Odes says, “We dare not wrestle a tiger with our bare hands; we dare not cross a river on foot.” People know that wrestling a tiger or crossing a river is dangerous, but they do not know that governing a state also demands caution. When heedless people take power, ruin and destruction are bound to follow. This is what it means to know one side but not the other.

An emperor must take the Great One (Taiyi), the fundamental principle underlying Heaven, Earth, and all things, as his standard. The Great One is the pattern manifested by Heaven. One who bears the title of king models himself on the transformations of Yin-Yang. One who bears the title of hegemon follows the cycles of the four seasons. An ordinary ruler puts the Six Pitch Standards (liulü), which regulate musical pitch and also symbolize principles of governance such as reward and punishment, appointment and dismissal, into practice. One who grasps the Great One can govern Heaven and Earth and regulate mountains and rivers. He can make the mountains and rivers gather clouds and bring rain, and can also cause them to grow calm. He contains and harmonizes Yin-Yang, sets the four seasons in motion, governs the eight directions and their farthest reaches, and connects the Six Directions (above, below, and the four quarters). With benevolence, he covers, illuminates, and guides all things, giving widely and without favoritism. Even the tiniest flying or crawling creatures depend on his Virtue (De) to grow.

Yin-Yang receives the harmonious Qi of Heaven and Earth and gives rise to the distinct forms of all things. It stores vital energy and brings forth the myriad beings, allowing each to form its own kind. Things may extend or contract, bend or unfold; their transformations are profound and cannot be fully measured. From ending to beginning, from emptiness to fullness, they transform within a source that has no fixed starting point.

The seasons follow their course: spring brings forth the sprouting of things, summer their growth, autumn their harvest, and winter their storage. The growth and storage of all things each have their proper measure; coming and going each have their proper time; opening and closing, expansion and contraction, all follow their order. Changes in joy and anger, firmness and gentleness, must likewise not go against the natural order.

The Six Pitch Standards symbolize life and death, reward and punishment, giving and taking. A state cannot be governed without these principles, and no other means can take their place. Thus, if a ruler carefully applies standards such as the balance and the rule, examining what is heavy and light, that is enough to govern his territory. The balance measures fairness, the rule sets standards for conduct, and the marking line corrects what is crooked or straight.

One who takes the Great One as his standard understands the conditions of Heaven and Earth and knows the patterns of Virtue. His wisdom shines like the sun and moon, and his spirit reaches through all things. His movements and stillness accord with Yin-Yang, and his changes of joy and anger accord with the seasons. His benevolence reaches distant lands, and his reputation endures for generations.

One who models himself on Yin-Yang has Virtue equal to Heaven and Earth, radiance equal to the sun and moon, and spirit in accord with ghosts and spirits. With rounded Heaven above his head and square Earth beneath his feet, he keeps the right way and its standards in his heart. Inwardly, he can cultivate himself; outwardly, he can win the goodwill of the people. When he issues commands, all under Heaven respond and submit to his teaching.

One who follows the seasons is gentle in temperament but not fragile, and strong but not brittle. He is generous without being lax, and grave without being unduly severe. Calmly adapting to change, he uses it to nurture all kinds of beings. His Virtue is generous: he can make room for the foolish and the unworthy, and bears no favoritism.

One who puts the Six Pitch Standards into practice attacks those who rebel and forbids violence; recommends the worthy and dismisses the unworthy; puts wrongs right, clears obstacles to make the way level, and straightens what is crooked. He understands when to prohibit and when to permit, when to open and when to close. By responding to the right moment and making use of circumstances, he brings the people to accept his rule.

If an emperor models himself on Yin-Yang only as an ordinary ruler would, he will suffer incursions by the various states of Xia in the Central Plains. If a king follows only the seasons, his power will be weakened. If a hegemon acts only according to the Six Pitch Standards, neighboring states will insult him. If a ruler loses his standards, his ministers will depose him and install someone more worthy. Thus, when people of low rank undertake matters that are too grand, they seem remote and insufficiently thorough, and find it difficult to win others’ closeness. When people of high rank concern themselves only with small matters, they seem narrow and cannot make room for their ministers. When high and low alike remain in their proper places and fulfill their respective duties, the world can be governed well.

Heaven prizes brightness, Earth is valued for its evenness, and human beings prize their nature. Heaven’s brightness appears in the sun, moon, and stars, and in thunder, lightning, wind, and rain. Earth’s evenness appears in water, fire, metal, wood, and earth. Human nature appears in thought, intelligence, and joy and anger.

Therefore, close the four gates of the senses and the mind—ears, eyes, heart, and mouth—and still the five forms of dissipation, so that you may become one with the Dao. When the four gates are closed, the spirit is stored in the formless, and the vital essence returns to its original purity. Then the eyes are clear but are not drawn along by external things; the ears are keen but are not disturbed by sounds; the mind is open and understanding but does not cling to thought. Follow what is natural without contrived action; remain calm without presuming to be right. When the true feelings of nature and life are not mixed with artificial cleverness, the vital essences each serve their proper purpose: gathered in the eyes, they bring keen vision; retained in the ears, keen hearing; resting in the mouth, fitting speech; returning to the heart, clear thought. Thus, when you draw in the ears, eyes, heart, and mouth, the body suffers fewer troubles and its joints and limbs remain free of illness. One who releases attachment to life and death, emptiness and fullness, and keeps to the constant Dao is called a True Person.

The roots of disorder all lie in indulging in pleasure and becoming absorbed in ease. There are five main forms of such indulgence: obsession with woodworking, obsession with water features, obsession with construction, obsession with metal vessels and weapons, and obsession with burning and smelting.

Obsession with woodworking means undertaking vast construction projects, building palaces and halls, and raising tall towers and connected covered walkways and double-tiered paths. Roofs and well-shaped structures are embellished with added decorations, and wooden parts are made to support one another. Images of coiling dragons, sinuous patterns, and tiger heads are carved; designs are cut and engraved, then painted and sculpted into strange patterns and water-like curves. Everything is made elaborate and splendid. Patterns of every kind are interwoven and linked, in pursuit of exquisite novelty. This is indulgence in woodworking.

Obsession with water features means digging deep pools and building far-reaching banks, bringing in water from streams and valleys, and stacking stones along winding shores, which are decorated with jade. Torrents are dammed to raise the water, and twisting channels are dug to imitate the shapes of rivers and lakes. Lotus roots and water chestnuts are planted in the pools to feed fish and turtles. Swans, mandarin ducks, and other water birds are raised, and ample stores of rice are kept on hand. Dragon boats are built, with garfish painted on their bows, and music is played aboard for amusement. This is indulgence in water features.

Obsession with construction means raising high city walls and setting up barriers, building lofty terraces and pavilions, and enlarging enclosed parks for keeping birds and animals so as to survey distant scenery. Towering palace gates and layered high buildings are erected until they seem like Mount Kunlun. Walls and covered passageways are built, earth is piled into hills, and roads are laid out straight and level; even rough, difficult terrain is made suitable for chariots and horses to race across. This is indulgence in construction.

Obsession with metal vessels means casting splendid, heavy bells and ritual cauldrons, decorating them with patterns of mountain dragons and flowering insects, and engraving crouching tigers and coiling dragons. Interwoven designs are inlaid until the vessels glitter. Weapons are also made with ornate decorations, their patterns resembling frost and snow, brocade, and the grain of bamboo mats—so finely wrought that they dazzle the eye. This is indulgence in metal vessels.

Obsession with fire means boiling and roasting food, blending the sour and sweet flavors of every region, setting forests alight for hunts, and burning down great trees. Bellows are worked to smelt copper and iron, and metal is hammered again and again without satisfaction. The long branches on the mountains are cut away, and the mulberry and catalpa trees in the forests are felled. Wood is burned into charcoal and grass into ash, preventing the plants of the plains from growing in season. The result is to shut out the light above and exhaust the land below. This is indulgence in fire. Any one of these five excesses is enough to bring the realm to ruin.

For this reason, the construction of the ancient Bright Hall, where the Son of Heaven issued commands and performed sacrifices, was kept within bounds: the floor was protected from damp, the roof kept out mist and dew, and the four sides were shielded from the wind. Its construction was not embellished; its woodwork was left uncarved, its metal vessels were not engraved, and clothes were not cut with slanting, pointed corners. Caps were made straight and proper. The hall was large enough for people to perform rites, move about, and conduct affairs of state. Its surroundings were quiet and clean, suitable for sacrificing to the Heavenly Lord and the spirits, and they taught the people the value of frugality.

Sounds, colors, fine flavors, and rare goods from distant places can all alter people’s intentions, disturb their spirits, and affect their Qi and blood. Their kinds are too numerous to count. The wealth produced by Heaven and Earth ultimately depends on the Five Phases: Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth. When sages regulate the production and use of what the Five Phases represent, government does not fall into neglect.

By nature, when people are at peace and their desires are satisfied, they feel joy. Joy leads to movement, movement to dancing and singing, and then to leaping and dancing. When song and dance follow proper measure, even birds and beasts join in their movements. When people face hardship or the grief of losing a loved one, they become sorrowful. Sorrow makes them weep; when grief deepens, they grow angry, and their bodies can scarcely be still. Thus bells and drums, pipes and flutes, shields and axes, and feathered banners are used to express joy; mourning clothes, hempen staffs, and measured weeping and leaping are used to express grief; weapons, banners, metal gongs and drums, and battle-axes are used to express anger. Only when feelings are truly present do rites and formal adornments have meaning.

When the sage kings of antiquity ruled, government and instruction were just, benevolence was abundant, ruler and ministers were in harmony, and food and clothing were plentiful, with a surplus in every household. Fathers were caring, children were filial, elder brothers were kind, and younger brothers were respectful. The living bore no resentment, and the dead left no regrets. The realm was harmonious, everyone was content, and people rejoiced in one another. The sages therefore established music to harmonize and regulate these feelings.

In later ages, government deteriorated. Taxes on hunting and fishing grew heavy, levies at passes and markets became harsh, and waters and marshes were entirely closed off, leaving the people nowhere to cast their nets or till the land. Their strength was spent on labor service, and their possessions were drained by taxes. Their homes had no grain, they had no provisions for travel, the elderly had no one to support them, and the dead had no one to bury them. Some even sold their wives and children to satisfy the demands of those above, yet it was still not enough. The people’s hearts were filled with sorrow and distress. At such a time, to have them strike bells and drums, blow mouth organs and flutes, and play zithers and lutes would be to lose music’s very foundation.

In antiquity, rulers demanded little, and the people lived in abundance. The ruler extended kindness, ministers gave their loyalty, fathers showed care, and children were filial; each devoted themselves to the others, and there was no resentment. The three-year mourning period was not something imposed by force: it arose naturally from the hearts of filial children. They could not enjoy music or taste fine food because their longing for their loved ones had not yet faded. In later ages, customs decayed: desires multiplied, ritual and righteousness were abandoned, ruler and minister deceived one another, and fathers and sons grew suspicious of one another. Their hearts filled with resentment, and feelings of loyalty, filial devotion, and longing for family disappeared. Even if people wore mourning clothes and caps, to laugh and play during a funeral would already be to lose its purpose. The foundation of mourning lies in grief within the heart.

In ancient times, the Son of Heaven and the feudal lords each had their own territory and kept to their proper bounds; they were not allowed to seize one another’s land. If someone failed to follow the kingly way, abused the people, seized territory, and violated the laws, then ignored commands and refused to reform, the Son of Heaven would raise an army to punish him, execute the ruler, and install one of his own kinsmen in his place. The virtuous would be honored with repairs to their ancestral tombs, the local Earth God would be sacrificed to, and a worthy descendant would be chosen to succeed him. The ancient law was this: the Son of Heaven did not destroy the states of the feudal lords, and the feudal lords did not extinguish one another’s lineages.

In later ages, however, rulers pursued territorial expansion without end, waged unjust wars, attacked states that had committed no crime, killed innocent people, and cut off the descendants of the ancient sages. Great states sent out armies while small states defended their walls. People’s cattle, horses, sons, and daughters were seized; ancestral temples were destroyed, and their treasures carried away. Blood flowed for a thousand miles and corpses covered the fields, all to satisfy the desires of greedy rulers. War was meant to punish violence, not to create it. Music was meant to harmonize people’s hearts, not to indulge their desires. Mourning rites were meant to give full expression to grief, not to put on a show.

There is a proper way to serve one’s parents, and its essence is love. Court life has rules of ritual, and their essence is respect. Mourning has its rites, and their essence is grief. The use of military force has its methods, and its foundation is righteousness. Weapons have existed for a long time: through them sages have brought prosperity, while people in disorderly times may also meet their downfall. Everything depends on whether government is clear or confused. When the foundation is established in righteousness, the Way can be put into practice. When the foundation is damaged, the Way is abandoned.

This concludes Volume Thirteen of Huainan Honglie Jie.

“Root” means the foundation, and “righteousness” means the moral principles of the Way. When the foundation is firmly established, righteousness is established as well. When the foundation is damaged, righteousness is lost. Thus, when the foundation is abandoned, the Way is abandoned too.

Volume Fourteen of Huainan Honglie Jie

Volume Fourteen of Huainan Honglie Jie

Recorded by Xu Shen, a libationer in the Grand Commandant’s household.

“Teachings on the Ruler’s Art, Part One”

“Ruler” refers to the sovereign, and “art” refers to the way of governing the state. From the Five Emperors and Three Kings onward, every ruler who accomplished great things followed the way of governing the state while ruling the country and directing the ministers. That is why this chapter is called “The Ruler’s Art.”

The key to a ruler’s governance is to avoid personally laboring over every matter while still bringing about instruction that needs no repeated commands: affairs are carried through without having to issue orders again and again. The ruler remains calm and settled, does not act hastily, and adheres to established rules without changing them at will. Following the way things naturally proceed, the ruler entrusts affairs to ministers and requires them to fulfill their duties, without exhausting himself.

Thus, when the ruler has plans in mind, he lets his tutors—officials who guide the ruler or the crown prince—explain and develop them. When he is skilled in speech, he lets ministers speak on his behalf. When he is ready to act, he has the ritual guide, whose conduct provides an example and who directs ceremonial proceedings, lead the way. When he is willing to hear advice, he lets the remonstrant, charged with correcting the ruler, offer counsel. In this way, plans are rarely mistaken and affairs are handled without error. The ruler’s words should set a standard, and his conduct should serve as an example to all under Heaven. His advances and withdrawals should suit the occasion; his activity and stillness should follow what is right. He should show no favoritism based on beauty or ugliness, liking or dislike, and should not let rewards or punishments stir his joy or anger. Each title has its proper name, each thing belongs to its own category, and affairs unfold according to their own patterns rather than being forced into order by the ruler alone.

For this reason, ancient kings wore ceremonial crowns with strings of beads hanging before them, to screen their sight and prevent them from seeing too keenly. Yellow silk-cotton ornaments, called toukuang, hung from the crowns to screen their hearing and keep them from listening to improper talk. The Son of Heaven placed a screen outside the palace gate to block the view. The Erya calls the wall inside a gate a “tree,” and the Analects also says that a ruler set a screen wall at the entrance to the court. The screens of feudal lords stood inside the gate, while the Son of Heaven’s stood outside; hence it is said that the screen concealed the ruler himself.

Thus, the wider the realm a ruler governs, the nearer the place where he himself resides; the greater the affairs he governs, the fewer the matters he personally oversees.

When the eyes wander wherever they please, people readily become absorbed in external things. When the ears listen indiscriminately, they are easily misled. When the mouth speaks without restraint, it readily creates disorder. These three gateways must be guarded with care. Trying to restrain and control one’s desires may instead scatter and unsettle them; deliberately embellishing them may instead ruin them. Here, “embellishing” means indulging what one likes, and “thieving” means ruining it.

The Qi of Heaven forms the hun, and the Qi of Earth forms the po. The hun and po return to the hidden depths, each settling in its proper place. If they are kept from scattering, they can reach upward to the Great One (Taiyi), the origin of the cosmos and the supreme Dao. The vital essence of the Great One is linked to the Way of Heaven. The Way of Heaven is profound and still, without fixed form or standard. It is so vast that it cannot be exhausted and so deep that it cannot be measured. It continually responds to the transformations of all things, yet people cannot grasp it through knowledge.

In ancient times, when Shennong governed the realm, his spirit did not stir restlessly within him, and his wisdom did not pursue things outside himself. Instead, it rested within him, together with an intention to be benevolent and bring all things to fulfillment. Gentle rain fell at the proper time, and the five grains grew abundantly: they sprouted in spring, flourished in summer, were harvested in autumn, and stored in winter. Each month, the seasons and farm work were reviewed; at year’s end, the harvest was reported, and the new grain was tasted at the proper time in the Bright Hall, a place for sacrifices and important ceremonies. The Bright Hall had a roof but was open on all four sides. Wind and rain could not enter, and neither cold nor heat could harm those inside. People entered at ease, while the ruler nurtured the people with an impartial heart.

The people of that time were simple, kind, upright, and sincere. They did not fight, yet had ample possessions. They did not strain their bodies, yet their work was done. They followed the conditions provided by Heaven and Earth and lived in harmony with nature. Thus, although the ruler was awe-inspiring, he did not kill wantonly. Punishments were set aside, laws were simple rather than elaborate, and yet the effects of his instruction seemed miraculous. It is said that Shennong’s rule extended south to Jiaozhi, north to Youdu, the distant northern lands; east to Yanggu, where the sun rises; and west to Sanwei, the remote western mountains. All these regions accepted his governance. Laws were lenient, prisons stood empty, and customs were the same throughout the realm. People harbored no wicked intentions.

Politics in the declining age was different. Those in high positions pursued their desires without limit, while those below were greedy and refused to yield. The people suffered in poverty and fought among themselves. They labored without accomplishing anything. Deception arose and thieves multiplied; those above and below resented one another, and government orders could no longer be carried out. Instead of striving to return to the right way and correct the root of the problem, those in power dealt only with its superficial details. They weakened De and piled on punishments. Trying to govern the realm this way is like luring birds with a slingshot, or striking a dog and then expecting it to come close: it only makes disorder worse.

When water is muddy, fish rise to the surface gasping for air. When government orders are harsh, the people fall into turmoil. Those who raise tigers, leopards, rhinoceroses, or elephants put them in enclosures and provide food so that they are neither too hungry nor too full. They also avoid the times when the animals are likely to grow angry. Even so, they may still fail to let them live out their natural lifespans, because tools of punishment and restraints threaten them. This shows that when those above set safeguards for everything, those below resort to more deception; when those above are busy with too many affairs, those below display more pretenses; when those above cause unceasing disturbance, those below are at a loss; and when those above demand too much, those below compete with one another. Failing to address the root and dealing only with the details is like raising dust in order to make it disappear, or carrying firewood to put out a fire.

Thus, when the sage attends to fewer affairs, things are easier to govern; when he seeks less, there is more than enough to provide. He does not deliberately bestow favors, yet benevolence appears of itself. He issues few commands, yet the people naturally trust him. He does not force anything, yet what is needed comes of itself. He does not act recklessly, yet things are accomplished. Calmly holding to what is genuine, embracing De, and putting sincerity into practice, he is followed by everyone under Heaven, as an echo answers a sound and a shadow follows a body. This is because he cultivates the root. Zhan He said, “I have never heard of someone governing himself well while his state fell into disorder.” Thus, the key to governance lies in cultivating the root.

Punishment cannot change customs, and killing cannot prevent wrongdoing. Only subtle instruction is truly valuable. “Utmost subtlety” means the wondrous influence of the spirit. A loud shout carries no farther than a hundred paces, but the reach of the mind can extend a thousand li. In winter, people naturally turn toward the sun; in summer, they naturally seek the shade. No one commands all things to do so. The influence of utmost subtlety works in the same way: without beckoning, people come of their own accord; without driving them away, they leave of their own accord. It is profound and unfathomable. No one knows what sets it in motion, yet things are accomplished naturally. The wise cannot explain it fully in words, and even the most eloquent cannot describe it clearly.

In ancient times, Sun Shuao lived in calm repose, and the people of Ying, the capital of Chu, suffered no harm from military forces. He raised horses for many years yet could not distinguish males from females. This means he was truly wise: quietly cultivating De, he had enough authority to keep distant enemy states from invading. Thus Chu did not need to send out troops or expose the surrounding regions to the harms of war. When Xiong Yiliao of Shinan played with pellets, he was not drawn into the conflict between two families in Chu. At the time, Bai Gong Sheng planned a rebellion and sent someone to ask Xiong Yiliao for help. Xiong Yiliao refused to take part, but did not reveal Bai Gong’s plan. Bai Gong threatened him with a sword, yet he remained unmoved and continued playing with his pellets. Later, Bai Gong killed Zixi. Although the two sides suffered calamity, no one blamed Xiong Yiliao. This shows that a person of true De need not say much to remain at ease amid events.

Putting on armor, glaring, and shouting in anger to fend off weapons has only limited effect; it falls far short of De. Contracts, wealth, punishments, and axes and halberds are likewise far less effective than De at dispelling calamity. If governing a state requires waiting for someone to point out a problem or issue an order before action is taken, it is very difficult indeed.

When Qu Boyu served as prime minister of Wei, Zigong asked how he governed the state. Qu Boyu replied, “I govern without deliberately imposing governance.” Zhao Jianzi of Jin sent Shi An to observe Wei. On his return, Shi An reported that while Qu Boyu was prime minister, Wei could not easily be attacked. What good would strong passes and rugged terrain be against a worthy minister like that? Gaoyao could not speak, yet as Minister of Justice he ensured that the realm had no cruel punishments. Shi Kuang was blind, yet as Grand Steward he kept Jin’s affairs free from disorder. This shows that something more valuable than speaking much or seeing with one’s own eyes exists. Fuxi and Shennong took this as their model. The people are transformed not by following the ruler’s spoken words, but by following his conduct and intentions.

Duke Zhuang of Qi admired martial courage. Even though he did not openly encourage people to fight, calamities were still common in the state, and eventually the disturbance caused by Cui Zhu led to his death. King Qingxiang of Chu was enamored of beauty. Even though he did not allow people to discuss it, promiscuity remained widespread among the people and gradually brought about the calamity of Zhaoqi. The ruler’s inner influence is like spring Qi causing all things to grow and autumn Qi causing them to wither. Even a swift horse carrying an order cannot act as quickly. A ruler is like an archer: the slightest movement can bring great changes at a distance, so he must be careful about the influence he has on others.

Rong Qiqi plucked his zither once, and Confucius was joyful for three days. This was the Qi of harmony finding a response. Zou Ji plucked his zither once, and King Wei of Qi grieved through the night. This was sorrow stirred within him. That the sound of a zither can make people sorrowful or joyful shows that inner feelings can be conveyed through sound. Laws may be posted and rewards established, but if they fail to change customs, it is because sincere intentions have not been conveyed. Ning Qi sang a merchant’s song beneath a cart, and Duke Huan of Qi was deeply moved when he heard it and eventually came to his senses. This shows that sincere influence can penetrate people’s hearts. Thus, listening to music reveals a place’s customs, and knowing its customs reveals the state of its instruction.

Confucius studied the zither with Shi Xiang and discerned King Wen’s purpose from its sound. This shows that the inner truth of what is significant can be understood from subtle signs. Ji Zha of Yanling heard the music and dances of Lu and was able to recognize the surviving traditions of Yin and Xia. This shows that the distant can be understood from the near. Works created in high antiquity have been passed down for a thousand years without losing their spirit. How much more, then, can they teach the people of the present age?

During the reign of Tang of Shang, a drought lasted seven years. Tang went in person to pray at Sanglin. Clouds gathered from the four directions, and rain fell across a thousand li. This was the power of sincerity and authenticity moving Heaven and Earth, a wondrous communion reaching beyond the four directions. If this can make government orders flow freely and commands be carried out as soon as they are issued, what could be difficult? The utmost De of the ancient sage kings was present within their hearts, while outwardly they did not cling to personal likes and dislikes. Their words accorded with what was true within them, their commands expressed their clear intentions, and they conveyed these through ritual and music and spread them through songs and ballads. Such work extends through the generations without obstruction and reaches endlessly in every direction. Even birds, beasts, and insects are transformed by it, let alone people who carry out laws and government orders. Thus, the highest form of governance transforms the people through wondrous De; the next makes them afraid to do wrong; and only after that come rewarding the worthy and punishing the violent.

A balance is fair only when it is placed between the two sides without favoring either one. A carpenter’s ink line is true only when it corrects both inner and outer edges without bending or straying from the straight. In the same way, a ruler is fit to issue decrees only when he neither favors nor resents anyone. A scale weighs heavy and light with precision down to the slightest fraction. A tool that straightens what is crooked does so without deviating by so much as a needle’s point. To correct what is twisted, one must favor no one and fear no obstacle. Then the wicked cannot distort the facts, slander cannot disrupt government, Virtue can shine forth, and resentment has nowhere to hide. This approach follows established rules and sets aside personal bias, but it is not the true Way of governance. Governance must rely on the Dao, not on personal ingenuity.

Boats float on water and carts travel over land; these are their natural ways. When timber snaps an axle or a current tears through a boat, people do not blame the wood or the water. They ask whether the driver or boatman used the right skill. The Dao itself does not scheme or calculate. If someone insists on grasping the Dao through cleverness, they will only become confused. When Virtue is mixed with self-interest, it becomes treacherous; when the mind is constantly pulled by external things, it cannot see clearly.

Of all weapons, none is sharper than resolve and sincerity; even a famed sword like Moye is of lesser importance. The greatest danger lies in failing to understand Yin-Yang change and the Dao of emptiness and fullness, advance and retreat. Concrete weapons such as the drum and mallet are minor concerns. Laozi says that when Virtue is accumulated deeply, nothing cannot be overcome. The sharpness of a treasured sword, then, is secondary.

Once the balance, compass, and carpenter’s square are set, their standards do not change. They do not use one measure for Qin and another for Chu, nor do they take a different shape for the Hu and the Yue. They remain consistent, follow the straight Dao, and do not drift with the current. People use them to administer the laws and pass them down from generation to generation, without needing to manipulate them deliberately. Even if a state has a foolish and disorderly ruler, the Way of governance is not thereby abandoned. Even when people fall into difficulty, reason can still find a way through. This shows that Wuwei (non-action) is the foundation of the Dao. Those who attain the Dao respond to all things and can meet changes without limit. Those who handle affairs by relying only on their own cleverness will struggle to govern well.

Though Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou were wise rulers, they could not necessarily navigate a small boat across rivers and lakes as well as the people of Yue, who knew the water. Though Yi Yin was an able minister, he could not necessarily ride and control the Yuan and Taotuo horses as well as the Hu people, who knew those horses. Though Confucius and Mozi were learned, they could not necessarily travel through dense woods, tall grass, and rugged paths as well as those who lived in the mountains. This shows that people’s knowledge of what they are unfamiliar with is always limited. If they do not follow what is right and rely only on their own abilities, they will ultimately be thwarted in trying to understand and govern everything under Heaven. Thus, intelligence alone is not enough to govern the world.

Xia Jie was immensely strong. He could bend apart an animal’s horns, straighten a curved hook, twist iron and melt gold, and push great beasts. He could dive into the water to catch softshell turtles and alligators, and go ashore to seize bears. Yet Tang of Shang defeated him at Mingtiao with only three hundred chariots and captured him at Jiaomen. This shows that physical strength alone is not enough to uphold the world. A ruler can learn what is happening beyond the four seas without leaving the court because he uses things to understand things, and other people to understand people. Bring together the strength of many, and nothing will be too heavy to move; bring together the wisdom of many, and nothing will be impossible to accomplish.

A well has no softshell turtles or alligators because it is too narrow; a garden has no tall trees because it is too small. One person may lack the strength to lift a great cauldron, though moving it may not require much strength. When a thousand people gather, there will be no lack of hands to move a beam; when ten thousand join forces, their work will not come to a standstill.

Fine steeds such as Hualiu and Lü’er can travel a thousand li in a day, yet they are no match for jackals when it comes to catching rabbits, because each has different abilities. The owl can see tiny fleas and gnats at night, but in daylight it cannot even make out a hill. This is its nature. The flying serpent moves through mist, the Yinglong rises on clouds, the ape is agile among trees, and the fish is swift in water. Every creature has an environment and abilities suited to it.

When people in ancient times made carts, those who applied lacquer did not also do the painting, and those who cut openings did not also do the carving. Craftspeople did not take on several trades, and officials did not hold several offices. Each kept to their own part without interfering with the others. Then people found their proper place, things were secure, tools were not damaged, and duties were not neglected. When responsibilities are few, they are easy to uphold; when burdens are light, they are easy to manage. The ruler holds to simple principles, while ministers carry out tasks that are easy to put into practice. In this way, ruler and ministers can remain together for a long time without becoming weary of one another.

A ruler governing the world is like the ritual impersonator who stands in for the deceased at a sacrifice. The impersonator quietly receives the offerings, and the officiants believe that the spirits have enjoyed them too. A ruler who is composed and still can receive good fortune and blessings. Therefore, those who attain the Dao do not adorn themselves deliberately or pretend to do good. They do not make themselves appear beautiful or carry their good deeds to excess. They extend their Virtue and kindness to one person without boasting of it, and to ten thousand without feeling burdened.

Excessive kindness obstructs the Way of governance just as excessive cruelty does. Giving generous rewards without merit, or high rank without effort, makes those who keep to their duties slack and those who live in idleness eager to seek office. Killing the innocent without cause and punishing the upright makes those who cultivate themselves unwilling to do good and encourages the wicked to scorn the law. Thus, lavish kindness breeds treachery, while excessive punishment breeds disorder. Such customs lead to the downfall of a state.

When a wise ruler governs a state, he does not punish someone out of personal anger when the law calls for punishment. Nor does he claim the credit when someone deserves a reward. The people know that rewards and punishments result from their own conduct, so they strive to earn merit and do their duties well without crediting the ruler. The court then need not interfere in every detail, and fields are cultivated with few weeds left to grow. The best governance is when people know that their ruler exists, yet each can be content in their own place.

A ruler is like the supporting post of a well sweep: the beam’s rise and fall depends on its pivot. When the ruler is quiet and steady, neither rash nor restless, the officials can each perform their duties. It is like the person carrying the army’s banner: if they wave it at random, the ranks will fall into confusion. Small cleverness cannot bring peace to the world, and minor schemes cannot resolve a crisis. Rather than busily praising Yao and condemning Jie, chasing reputations for good and evil, one should draw in one’s sharpness and return to cultivating the Great Dao. The ruler’s Way is the same.

When a ruler is calm and practices Wuwei, he can respond to the seasons of Heaven. When he is upright, frugal, and steadfast, he can receive the produce of the earth. Only by displaying Virtue through humility can he plan for the state like a sage. When he takes a lowly position, all things gather around him; when his mind is empty, capable people throughout the world are willing to offer their skills.

In hearing cases and administering affairs, a ruler should be clear-minded and alert, open-minded and free from excessive desire. Then the ministers will gather to offer their views, and each—whether foolish or clever, capable or ordinary—can make full use of their strengths. The ruler establishes the state on ritual and law, takes the strength of the people as his chariot and their wisdom as his horses. Even in remote, shadowed places with treacherous roads, he will not lose his way.

Though a ruler may live deep within the palace and shut himself away, unable to see what happens ten li away or hear what is said a hundred paces off, he can still understand affairs throughout the world because many people gather information and many weigh what to accept or reject. Thus, one can know the world without leaving the door and understand the Way of Heaven without peering out the window. Gather the wisdom of many, and there is nothing in the world too difficult to grasp. Rely only on your own deliberation, and you may not even be able to keep yourself safe.

Therefore, the ruler guides the people through Virtue. He does not flaunt his own cleverness but responds to what the people need. When the people benefit, they support the ruler: they do not feel burdened when carrying him, harmed when he is placed before them, oppressed when they raise him up, or weary when they uphold him.

The ruler’s way lies in being adaptable and turning with events, without a fixed starting point or boundary. It nurtures and transforms the myriad things, seeming wondrous and unfathomable. It also remains empty and still, follows the natural changes of things, and usually stays behind rather than seeking to take the lead. The minister’s way, too, calls for flexibility and a refusal to cling to a single method. But when discussing affairs, the minister must judge right and wrong and handle matters appropriately; when acting, the minister should take the initiative and clearly uphold the duties of the office, thereby establishing merit.

Thus, when ruler and minister each follow their own way, government can be stable: the ruler’s decisions cannot be casually altered or usurped, and their words can be brought into accord. If ruler and minister follow the same way, however, disorder results. When the ruler says something is acceptable, the minister simply agrees; when the ruler says it is unacceptable, the minister agrees again. This is what it means for ruler and minister to follow the same way.