《淮南鸿烈解》Vol. 9

Only by tasting water can one know its sweetness and bitterness. Sou’er and Yi Ya were both skilled at discerning flavors in the state of Qi. “Ha” means the mouth. When sages judge whether people are worthy or unworthy, they need only look at a single deed to tell the difference.

Confucius gave up his stipend from Linqiu and did not take even a knife or a hook with him. Linqiu was a town in Qi, now part of Jiyin. Duke Jing of Qi supported Confucius, but Confucius’s teachings were not adopted and the Dao could not be put into practice. Unwilling to accept a stipend for nothing, he declined it, and so did not covet another person’s knife or hook. Xu You yielded the position of Son of Heaven, and in the end did not covet the rank of feudal lord either. Xu You was from Luodi and Yangcheng. When Yao wanted to hand the realm over to him, Xu You washed his ears to show that he would not accept it. Thus it is said that he did not even covet the title of feudal lord.

Someone who has never been burned still dares not casually grasp fire, because they know it can scorch them. Someone who has never been cut still dares not casually grasp a knife, because they know it can wound them. From this we can infer what has yet to happen from actions already revealed; by observing small acts, we can also understand a person’s character as a whole.

So a person can be judged by observing them in these ways: when they hold high office, see whom they recommend; when they are wealthy, see what they give; when they are in hardship, see what they refuse to accept; when they are low in rank, see what they refuse to do; when they are poor, see what they refuse to take. Put them through danger and difficulty to learn their courage; tempt them with pleasure to see whether they can hold to their principles; entrust them with wealth to judge their character; and shock them with fear to learn their mettle. In this way, a person’s true nature can be seen in full.

In ancient times, those skilled at giving rewards spent little yet inspired many. Zhao Xiangzi was one such ruler. Those skilled at punishment used few penalties yet stopped wrongdoing. King Wei of Qi did so. Those skilled at giving offered only a little yet inspired gratitude. Duke Mu of Qin did so. Those skilled at gaining acquired much yet aroused no resentment. Duke Huan of Qi did so.

Zhao Xiangzi was besieged at Jinyang. After the siege was lifted, he rewarded those who had rendered service, giving the first reward to Gao He. His attendants said, “When Jinyang was in danger, Gao He did not perform any great service. Why have you placed him first among those rewarded?” Earlier, Zhi Bo had demanded land from Zhao Xiangzi, who refused to give it. Zhi Bo then joined forces with Han and Wei to attack the Zhao clan, but after three months they had still not taken the city. Zhang Mengtan, a minister of the Zhao clan, secretly made contact with Han and Wei and urged them to turn against Zhi Bo. In the end, they killed him. People believed that Zhang Mengtan was the one who had truly rendered great service.

Zhao Xiangzi said, “When Jinyang was under siege, my state was on the brink of ruin. Any of my ministers might have treated me with disrespect or contempt, but Gao He alone upheld the proper rites between ruler and subject throughout.” He therefore made a special point of rewarding Gao He alone, so that loyal ministers throughout the realm would remain steadfast in their allegiance to their rulers. This was how a small reward could encourage many to do good.

King Wei of Qi set up a large cauldron in the courtyard and summoned the magistrate of Wuyan County. He reproached him, saying, “Every day I hear people praise you, yet when I examine your record, I find fields lying waste, granaries empty, and prisons full. You have been deceiving me through corrupt means.” He then had the magistrate boiled alive. For thirty-two years afterward, nothing dropped on the roads in Qi was taken by anyone. This was how a small number of punishments could put a stop to wrongdoing.

When Duke Mu of Qin was traveling, his carriage broke down, and the horses drawing it ran off. People from the countryside caught them, killed them, and ate the meat. When Duke Mu followed them to the southern foothills of Mount Qi, they were sharing the horse meat. He said, “If you eat the meat of a fine horse without drinking wine, it may harm your health. I am worried you will fall ill.” He then gave each of them wine and went on his way. The commentary to this passage explains that the battle with Duke Hui of Jin at Hanyuan took place the year after Duke Mu gave the people the wine.

Duke Hui of Jin had once broken his promise and failed to repay Qin as agreed. Qin therefore sent troops against Jin, and the two armies met at Hanyuan in Jin territory. The Jin army surrounded Duke Mu’s carriage. The Jin general Liang Youmi seized one of the horses drawing it and was on the verge of capturing Duke Mu. More than three hundred people who had eaten Duke Mu’s horse meat and drunk the wine he had given them rushed to the carriage, risking their lives to fight for him. Qin eventually won and captured Duke Hui of Jin. Duke Mu had given the people no more than a single round of wine, yet they repaid him with their lives. This was how a limited gift could inspire gratitude.

When Duke Huan of Qi was preparing to launch a campaign, he lacked weapons. He therefore decreed that those who committed serious crimes must pay a suit of rhinoceros-hide armor and a halberd; those who committed lesser crimes must pay an amount of gold proportionate to the offense; and those who lost lawsuits must pay a bundle of arrows. The people were all willing to accept these measures. Duke Huan then had arrow shafts prepared and metal weapons cast, using them to punish the unjust and campaign against unrighteous states. In the end, he became hegemon of the realm. This was how one could acquire much without arousing resentment.

Thus, the sage encourages good conduct by following what the people enjoy, and suppresses wrongdoing by following what they dislike. As a result, when one person is rewarded, people throughout the realm praise it; when one person is punished, people throughout the realm are in awe. The finest reward need not cost much. The most fitting punishment is not imposed indiscriminately and does not harm the good.

After Confucius executed Shaozheng Mao, false teachings and corrupt practices in Lu were brought to a halt. Shaozheng was an official title, and Mao was his name; the commentary describes him as a man of Lu skilled in flattery. When Confucius governed Lu, he had Mao executed beneath the Eastern Viewing Terrace after only seven days in office. After Zi Chan executed Deng Xi, wrongdoing in Zheng was likewise suppressed. Deng Xi was skilled in sophistry and had led the way in deception. The account says that Si Chuan, a senior minister of Zheng, killed Deng Xi but adopted the penal code he had written on bamboo slips. Zheng continued to use his laws, preserving their useful provisions even though their author had been killed.

What happens nearby can explain what lies far away; small examples can reveal great principles. The sage holds fast to simple methods yet can govern a vast domain. This is what the passage means.

Nothing in the world is easier than doing good, and nothing is harder than doing evil. To do good, one need only remain calm and self-possessed, avoid excessive desires, act with sincerity and benevolence, and follow one’s natural disposition. That is why it is easy. To do evil, however, one must pursue without restraint, benefit oneself at others’ expense, and go against one’s natural disposition. That is why it is hard. Doing good means remaining calm and not acting recklessly; doing evil means becoming agitated and harboring many desires. When people are content with their proper place, resist the temptations of external things, follow their nature to preserve their innate simplicity, and do not abandon their principles, doing good comes easily.

Climbing over city walls, forcing one’s way through dangerous passes, forging tally tokens (ancient credentials used to verify identity or convey orders), stealing keys and seals, usurping the throne and murdering the ruler, falsely claiming to deliver an imperial command, and framing others are not part of human nature. Here, “wickedness” means stealing in secret. Tally tokens and seals are credentials used to establish trust; a guan is a key, and a jin is a seal. Usurpation and regicide mean a minister plotting against the ruler; jiao means falsely claiming authority to issue the ruler’s command; and wu means harming someone by falsely branding them with a bad name. None of these acts arises from the goodness people possess by nature. That is why doing evil is hard.

People who now commit crimes and end up in prison or suffer punishment do so because their desires are unsatisfied and they do not obey the law. Why say this? The laws of the state prescribe death for robbing a tomb and punishment for theft. Officials charged with enforcing the law investigate those who act wickedly and trace their movements. Even an ignorant man or woman knows that wrongdoing is difficult to hide and that breaking a prohibition will eventually be punished. Yet some people still cannot restrain their desires and commit crimes despite risking death and the humiliation of punishment. When the autumn executions come, officials arrive one after another, and the roads are stained with the blood of those who die at the execution ground. Why does this happen? They are so dazzled by the lure of wealth that they cannot see the calamity of death.

When two armies go to war, the general gives this order: “Take an enemy’s head and you will be granted a title; retreat in battle and you will be executed by waist-slicing.” Yet soldiers often fail to charge forward and distinguish themselves, and instead suffer the punishment of waist-slicing. They are thus avoiding a possible death only to head toward certain death. For this reason, one must carefully discern how benefit and harm can turn into one another, and how calamity and good fortune alternate. Sometimes the harder one tries to obtain something, the more surely one loses it; sometimes the harder one tries to avoid something, the more surely one encounters it.

A man from Chu was sailing when a strong wind arose. As the waves struck, he jumped into the water himself. It was not that he did not want to live or feared death; rather, his fear of death made him forget to seek life. Human desire works in the same way. A man from Qi stole gold, snatching it up and running off while the marketplace was crowded. The official questioning him asked, “Why did you steal gold in a crowded marketplace?” He replied, “I didn’t see anyone else. I saw only the gold.” When the mind is fixed entirely on what it wants, it forgets what it is doing.

Therefore, the sage examines the changes between action and stillness, keeps a proper measure in receiving and giving, brings the feelings of like and dislike into balance, and restrains joy and anger. When action and stillness are appropriate, calamity is less likely to arise. When receiving and giving are rightly measured, guilt will not cling to one. When like and dislike are brought into balance, anxiety is less likely to draw near. When joy and anger are restrained, resentment is less likely to be incurred. Those who understand the Dao do not take what is not theirs, nor do they refuse the good fortune they are entitled to. They do not abandon what belongs to them, and they do not force themselves to obtain what does not. Their hearts are always content, yet never complacent. With no desires in their hearts, they can remain fulfilled and are readily satisfied.

A small stream can fill a jug, but even a great river cannot fill a wine vessel with a hole in its bottom. The human heart is like this too: one should order one’s life according to the measure taught by Daoist methods. Food that satisfies hunger and clothing that keeps out the cold are enough to sustain a body seven feet tall. If one does not understand the proper measure taught by Daoist methods and only keeps trying to save, it is like pouring water into a leaking wine vessel: it can never be filled. Even the power to rule a state of ten thousand chariots may not make a person feel honored, and possession of all the wealth under Heaven may not bring happiness. Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang had neither Daoist methods nor a sense of measure. Even as commoners, they would have had nothing truly worthy of honor or happiness.

When Sun Shuao resigned as chief minister of Chu three times, he showed no sorrow, because rank and stipend could not entangle his heart. When Jing Cifei was aboard a boat and two dragons coiled around it, his resolve remained unmoved, because monsters could not frighten him. This is courage without confusion. The sage is calm in heart and settled in purpose, with the spirit held within; therefore, external things cannot bewilder him.

A drunkard who bends down to pass through a city gate may think the gate is as low as a seven-foot doorway; if he leaps across the Yangzi and Huai rivers, he may think he has merely stepped over an ordinary ditch. This is wine confusing his mind and spirit. A timid person who sees a measuring rod at night may take it for a ghost; seeing a stone lying across the ground, he may mistake it for a tiger. This is fear robbing him of his courage. How much less should we believe in the so-called monsters of Heaven and Earth, when they do not exist in the first place?

When male and female join and Yin-Yang come together, birds produce chicks and beasts produce young. Soft things become skin and flesh, hard things become teeth and horns, and people do not find this strange. Creatures called longshen, strange beings said to live in water, are born in rivers; gold and jade are found in mountains, and people do not find this strange either. An old locust tree gives off a glow, and blood left for a long time turns into phosphorescent fire; people find this no stranger. The vital essence of blood remains in the ground, and after a hundred days of exposure it becomes phosphorescent fire. Seen from a distance, it glimmers brightly, as though burning.

In the mountains lives the yaoyang, a spirit said to resemble a person: it is tall, dark-skinned, hairy, with heels facing backward, and laughs when it sees people. In the water lives the wangxiang, a water spirit. Among trees lives the bifang, a tree spirit that looks like a crow, is blue with red feet, has only one leg, and eats no grain. In wells lives the fenyang, an earth spirit. It is said that when Ji Zi of Lu dug a well, he unearthed a pottery jar containing a sheep. People find such things strange because their experience is limited and their ability to distinguish things is shallow.

Among the strange things in the world, the sage alone can see clearly; the wise alone can understand how fortune and misfortune change. Similarities and differences, doubts and obscurities often confuse ordinary people. Some knowledge cannot be spread throughout the world, and some truths cannot be made clear to all the people. So the sage uses ghosts and spirits, along with signs of good or ill fortune, to establish warnings. By classifying the forms of things and tracing the principles that link things of the same kind, the sage makes change apparent.

Why is this so? There are sayings among the people: when offering a sacrifice to the High Ancestor or to the Supreme One, a pig is the finest offering; when burying the dead, a fur garment should not be buried with them; when people playfully brandish knives at one another, the Grand Ancestor will shove the knife-wielder’s elbow; and if someone sleeps with their head on a threshold, ghosts and spirits will step on it. These sayings are not written into the laws, nor were they directly handed down by the sage.

A pig is offered to the High Ancestor not because it is better than wild beasts or deer, but because pigs are commonly raised at home and easy to obtain. Thus people honor the spirits in a way that suits their convenience. A fur garment should not be buried with the dead, not because silk and cotton are warmer than fur, but because people regard fur garments as valuable and hard to come by, and something that can be passed down to later generations. Burying one brings no benefit to the dead, but leaves the living without something useful; this teaching therefore warns people to treasure their possessions.

Playing at knife-fighting can lead to accidental injury, with grave consequences. Someone may fool around over a trivial matter and end up facing punishment or even death. Since foolish people do not know to avoid such dangers, the saying that “the Grand Ancestor shoves the elbow” is used to make them cautious. As for sleeping with one’s head on a threshold and having ghosts and spirits step on it: if these beings could transform in wondrous ways, they would have no need to enter or leave through doors and windows; if they merely moved like the wind, they could not step on a person’s head. Doors and windows are places where wind and Qi pass back and forth. This force takes shape through the intermingling of Yin and Yang, and people who are exposed to it there can easily fall ill. So the story of ghosts and spirits is used to strengthen the warning.

Warnings of this kind cannot be written one by one on bamboo or silk and stored in government offices. That is why signs of good and ill fortune are used to explain them. Foolish people do not understand the harm involved, so the sage uses the authority of ghosts and spirits to spread instruction. This practice has existed for a long time. The foolish take these things for signs of good or ill fortune; the stubborn dismiss them as absurd; only those who follow the Dao can understand their purpose.

Today people make offerings to wells, stoves, doors and gates, dustpans and brooms, mortars and pestles. This does not mean they believe the spirits of these objects can truly enjoy the offerings. Rather, people are mindful of the convenience these things bring and the labor they continuously perform. They make offerings at set times so as not to forget their usefulness.

Tap a mountain rock lightly, and a spring will well up, fulfilling people’s wishes. People today sacrifice to the gods of wells, hearths, and household gates, as well as to implements such as winnowing baskets, brooms, mortars, and pestles. They do not believe these spirits can truly enjoy the offerings; they honor their kindness, since these things have served people for a long time. So people make offerings at the proper times, lest their service be forgotten.

Only Mount Tai can yield a spring when its rocks are struck, gather the water into a great expanse, and, in a single morning, send rain across the world. “Chong” means “end”: the time from dawn until the morning meal is called “the end of the morning.” Only the great rivers keep flowing even after three years of drought, their waters extending for a hundred miles and nourishing plants. For this reason, the Son of Heaven makes offerings to Mount Tai and the great rivers according to ritual.

A horse that has saved someone from danger should be buried when it dies; when an ox dies, a great cart should be buried with it. If the service of oxen and horses must not be forgotten, how much more so the service of people? This is why sages prize benevolence and deepen their debts of gratitude, layer upon layer. “Xi” also means to pile things up. The Flame Emperor, the legendary ancient ruler Shennong, governed the world through the Virtue of Fire and, after death, was honored as the Hearth God. Yu the Great controlled the waters for the world and, after death, was honored as the God of the Soil, who governs the land. Hou Ji, ancestor of the Zhou people, taught people to farm and, after death, was honored as the God of Millet, who governs grain. Yi rid the world of its harms and, after death, was honored as the God of Zongbu. These spirits were established to commemorate their service.

The Yi discussed here is the Yi of the time of Yao, not Hou Yi of the state of Youqiong. According to legend, the River Earl drowned people, and Yi shot and wounded his left eye; the Wind Earl destroyed people’s homes, and Yi shot him in the knee. Yi also punished the harmful creatures Jiuying and Yayü, earning merit for the world. After his death, he was therefore honored as the God of Zongbu. During the sacrifice, people shoot at an image of Zongbu in the fields. Another account says that Zongbu is the god people worship at home; still another says he is a spirit who attends the God of Destiny.

In northern Chu there was a man who championed justice and defended others. His descendants repeatedly urged him to stop, but he would not listen. Later, when the county authorities searched for bandits, they searched his home, and he fled in fear during the night. His pursuers caught up with him on the road. Those he had helped fought fiercely on his behalf, and only then was he able to escape and return home. He said to his son, “You kept telling me not to defend others. Now that I’ve met with trouble, it was indeed other people’s help that saved my life. You were wrong to tell me to stop.” He understood only how he had escaped this particular danger; he did not understand that repeatedly inviting trouble could itself bring danger. Is it not foolish to reason about things this way?

A man in the state of Song, when marrying off his daughter, told her, “Marriage may not go smoothly. If you are sent back home, be sure to hide some money. With private funds, it will be easier to marry again.” His daughter followed his advice and secretly hid money. Her husband’s family discovered it and sent her home. Her father did not think his advice was mistaken; instead, he believed that his daughter had saved the money thanks to his plan. He saw only that hiding money could help if she were sent home, and failed to understand that secretly hiding money might itself be the reason she was sent home. Is such reasoning not absurd?

Today, some people hire a cart to carry goods and strain an ox’s strength to the limit, until the axle breaks. If they then join the shafts and axle together and insist that this will make a new cart, they do not understand how the shafts and axle work together to cause the axle to break. The King of Chu wore a jade ring while chasing a rabbit. As he ran, he struck and broke the ring, so he put on two rings for protection. But the two rings knocked against each other and broke all the sooner. Governing a disorderly state can sometimes be just like this.

The owl has large eyes, yet sees less well at night than a mouse. The centipede has many legs, yet runs less swiftly than a snake. Things that are large may be inferior to small things, and things that are many may be inferior to few. As for the strong becoming weak, the weak becoming strong, danger turning to safety, and life turning to death, these are even harder for ordinary people to see. Only sages can discern them. Size, rank, and status are not in themselves a measure of things; what matters is whether they accord with the Dao (the Way).

Why is this so? When the Son of Heaven rests at a roadside lodging outside the city, the Nine Ministers hurry forward, the high officials run, those who are seated prostrate themselves, and even those leaning against something straighten up. But in the Hall of Light or the Grand Ancestral Temple, people can remove their caps and swords, loosen their belts, and rest at ease. This is not because a roadside lodging is more spacious than a temple, but because the most exalted person is inside the lodging. The exalted nature of the Dao is just the same: a place is not honored only when the Son of Heaven is there. Wherever the Dao is present, all naturally look up to it.

Hibernating insects and magpies building nests alike face toward “Heavenly One,” the direction believed to hold the harmonious Qi of Heaven and Earth, because the most harmonious Qi is there. If an emperor could truly contain and bear the Great Dao, and accord with this harmonious Qi, birds, beasts, and plants would all receive his beneficence—how much more would the people of the world?

The Huainan Honglie Jie, Volume Twenty, ends here.

Volume Twenty-One was recorded by Xu Shen, Libationer to the Grand Commandant.

“Treatise on Explication”: “Explication” means “to examine closely.” It explains the subtle principles within things according to the particular purpose of each, for the principles followed by worldly things are the grounds on which the Great Dao proceeds.

Heaven and Earth are seamlessly connected. Before chaos divided them, all things remained in their original, unadulterated state. Although the myriad things had not yet been brought forth, they already contained the source from which all things could arise. This is called the “Great One” (Taiyi), the common origin of all things. The Great One is also the “Original Spirit” (Yuanshen), the wondrous primordial ground that governs all things.

All things come from the same source, yet appear in different forms: birds, fish, and beasts. These are called “differentiated things”—the various beings that have branched out from the source. Things gather according to their kind and are distinguished by their groupings. Their dispositions and lives differ, each appearing as a particular being. Separated from one another, they cannot communicate; thus they divide into many forms, making it difficult to trace them back to their common origin. To seek the source of one’s own nature and life, one should return to this state of seamless connection before differentiation.

All things come to life through change, and death is regarded as their end. Yet they are only things that have taken form; they are not the source itself that gives rise to all things. The “maker of things”—the source that makes all things what they are—is not any particular thing. Formless and imageless, it is elusive and empty. It is not among the myriad things, yet it is the source that brings them forth.

Looking back to the beginning of the cosmos, human beings arose from the formless and imageless “Nonbeing” and took shape within “Being.” Once they have a body, they are subject to external things. Those who can return to life’s source, as though they had not yet taken form, are called “Realized Persons” (zhenren)—people who return to their origin and unite with the Dao. Realized Persons have never been separate from the Great One (Taiyi), the source from which all things in the cosmos were undivided.

Sages do not let fame rule them, nor turn themselves into storehouses of plans, bearers of burdens, or masters of clever schemes. They conceal their traces, leave no tracks, and reveal no signs. They do not act ahead of good fortune or become the source of calamity. They dwell in emptiness and act only when necessity leaves them no choice. Seeking good fortune may instead invite disaster; seeking advantage may instead lead to harm. Thus, those who find peace through Wuwei (non-action) fall into danger when they lose the basis of that peace. Those who govern well by leaving matters alone fall into disorder when they lose the basis of that governance.

The stars are arranged in the heavens, so they shine clearly and people point them out. Right principles appear in virtue, so people can observe them. Whatever people point out will show a pattern in its conduct; whatever they observe will leave a trace in its behavior. Conduct with an obvious pattern invites discussion and blame; behavior that leaves traces is also open to judgment. Sages therefore restrain their visible radiance and do not make themselves conspicuous. They conceal their tracks, follow things as they are, and refrain from contrived action.

Prince Qingji died by the sword. Qingji was the younger brother of King Liao of Wu. After Helü killed King Liao, Qingji, a powerful and courageous man, fled to Zheng. Fearing him, Helü sent Yao Li to assassinate him. Hou Yi died from a club made of peachwood. A taobang is a large peachwood staff used to beat Hou Yi to death. From then on, people said that ghosts feared peachwood. Zilu was chopped into minced meat in the state of Wei, and Su Qin also met his death through his words. Su Qin was skilled at persuasion and was later killed in Qi.

People invariably value their own strengths and look down on their weaknesses. Yet they often become attached to what they consider precious and disparage what they consider base. What people value is usually visible and tangible, while what they dismiss is often formless and traceless. Thus tigers and leopards are hunted for their strength, and apes are captured for their agility. Only those who can value what they themselves dismiss and dismiss what they themselves value are ready to discuss the deepest truths.

Those whose inner resolve is firm are not changed by slander or praise. Those who are content are not tempted by power or profit. Those who understand the reality of their nature do not force themselves to do what their nature cannot; they do not strive for what they cannot do. Those who understand the reality of their allotted life do not grieve over what lies beyond their control. Those who understand the Dao cannot have their inner balance disturbed by anything in the world.

Zhan He said, “I have never heard of a person who governs himself well while the state remains chaotic, or of a person who is chaotic within yet governs the state well. If a carpenter’s square is not true, it cannot draw a square; if a compass is not true, it cannot draw a circle. The self is like the rule by which affairs are handled. I have never heard of anyone whose own conduct is crooked yet who can make others upright.

Investigate the workings of Heaven’s mandate, govern the mind, set in order what you like and dislike, and follow your nature: then the way of governing the state will be clear. If you investigate Heaven’s mandate, fortune and misfortune will not bewilder you. If you govern the mind, you will not give free rein to joy and anger. If you set in order what you like and dislike, you will not covet useless things. If you follow your nature, your desires will not exceed their proper bounds. When fortune and misfortune do not bewilder you, you can act or remain still in keeping with what is constant. When joy and anger are not given free rein, rewards and punishments will not be biased. When you do not covet useless things, desire will not injure your nature. When desire does not go too far, you can nurture your nature and know contentment. None of these four things need be sought outside yourself or obtained through another; reflect on yourself, and they will be found.

Governing the world cannot rest solely on cleverness and talent, quick discernment, complicated administration, benevolence and favors, or coercive force. These five approaches all depend on human abilities; without deep De (Virtue/Power), none can be carried out well. When De is firmly established, these five approaches bring no danger. But if only these five approaches are displayed, De has nowhere to settle. When all five are put in the foreground, De has no place to stand. Thus, one who has attained the Dao may seem dull, yet has ability to spare; one who has lost the Dao may seem clever, yet still lacks what is needed.

When crossing water, if you do not know how to swim, you will surely sink, however strong you are. If you know how to swim, you can cross even with too little strength—how much more so if you can take a boat?

The foundation of governing is to make the people secure. The foundation of making the people secure is to provide them with enough for their livelihood. The foundation of providing enough is to avoid disrupting the seasons for farming. The foundation of avoiding such disruption is to reduce government business and labor service. The foundation of reducing government business and labor service is to restrain desire. The foundation of restraining desire is to return to one’s nature. The foundation of returning to one’s nature is to cast off unnecessary burdens. When showiness and excess burdens are set aside, the necessities of life will be sufficient. Casting off burdens brings emptiness and stillness; emptiness and stillness bring evenness and rightness. Evenness and rightness are the Dao’s natural state; emptiness and stillness are where the Dao dwells.

One who can possess the world will surely not lose the state. One who can preserve the state will surely not lose the household. One who can govern the household will surely not neglect the self. One who can cultivate the self will surely not forget the heart. One who can investigate the heart will surely not damage their nature. One who can preserve their nature will surely not be confused about the Dao.

Thus Guangchengzi, a legendary figure from the time of the Yellow Emperor, said, “Carefully hold fast to the heart and closely guard the outer senses. Knowing too much will bring ruin. Do not look outward; do not listen outward. Gather the spirit and remain still, and the body will naturally become upright. If you have not yet obtained something yourself, you cannot truly understand it in another. Therefore the Book of Changes says: ‘Tie the sack shut: there will be no misfortune and no praise.’”

One who can accomplish the work of a hegemon must be skilled at winning. One who can defeat an enemy must be strong. One who is strong must be skilled at drawing on the strength of others. One who is skilled at drawing on others’ strength must win their hearts. One who wins people’s hearts must first be able to bring himself to rest. One who can bring himself to rest must be gentle and humble. To overcome those weaker than oneself by force is easy; when facing an equal, one will be locked in a struggle. This describes two sides of equal strength; if one uses force to oppress the other, they will become locked in battle. The gentle and humble can overcome those stronger than themselves, and their power cannot be measured. Thus, the ability to achieve a great victory by means no one else can master belongs only to the sage.

A skilled swimmer can handle a boat with ease without first learning how to pole it. A person with strong bones and sinews can ride securely without first learning horsemanship. One who takes the things of the world lightly is not burdened by them, and so can live at ease.

King Danfu of Tai, the Grand King of Zhou, lived in Bin, where the Di people came to attack him. He tried to negotiate with leather, jade, silk, and jewels, but they still refused to relent. So he took leave of the local elders and moved to Qizhou. The people followed him, supporting the old and carrying the young, and later established a state there. In light of this, was it not only natural that, four generations later, his descendants came to rule all under Heaven? Those four generations were the Grand King, King Ji, King Wen, and King Wu. One who does not make all under Heaven the object of desire is, paradoxically, better able to govern it.

Frost and snow, rain and dew cause things to grow or wither, yet Heaven does not act with deliberate intent, and people still revere it. The same is true of holding to culture and attending to laws and commands: governing officials and managing the people are the duties of officials. The ruler need not personally attend to everything, yet people still revere the ruler. Houji cleared and cultivated the land; Yu dredged the waterways and controlled the rivers; Gaoyao judged cases and determined what was just; Yao, meanwhile, was renowned for his sagacity. Thus, one who understands the Dao and can command circumstances may employ capable people to act on his behalf, even without specialized abilities of his own. One who does not understand the Dao may have many skills, yet they will not necessarily be of use.

Two boats meet on a river. An empty boat drifts in from one side and overturns the other. Even if the people aboard are resentful, they usually do not direct their anger at anyone. But if someone is sitting in the empty boat, the people in the other boat call out to him. If he does not respond after repeated calls, they pursue him with insults. At first they were not angry, but now they are: before, what struck them was an empty boat; now, someone is aboard. If a person can move through the world with an empty mind, who could find fault with him?

Abandon the Dao and rely on cleverness and intellect, and danger is sure to follow. Set aside the natural order and rely only on personal ability, and hardship is inevitable. Some people meet ruin through excessive desire, but no one falls into danger through having no desires. Some try to impose order by force and bring about disorder, but no one loses their peace by keeping to what is constant. Wisdom is not enough to ward off calamity, and dullness does not necessarily deprive a person of peace. Keep to your proper place and follow the natural course of things: do not grieve when something is lost, or rejoice when it is gained. Then things will be accomplished without deliberate striving, and what is gained will not be the result of relentless pursuit.

Accept things without claiming them as your own; give things without considering yourself their benefactor. When spring comes, all things grow; when autumn arrives, they wither. To bring all things to life without claiming the merit, and to let them wither without incurring their resentment—this is to approach the Dao. The sage does nothing that invites criticism, nor resents others for criticizing him. He cultivates Virtue (De) worthy of praise, yet does not seek praise from others.

People cannot ensure that calamity will never occur, but they can be sure not to invite it deliberately. Nor can they ensure that good fortune will come, but they can be sure not to seize it by force. Calamity arrives without being sought, so even in hardship one need not grieve. Good fortune comes without being forced, so in favorable circumstances one need not boast. Understand that the coming and going of fortune and calamity are not under your control, and you can remain at ease and govern through Wuwei (non-action). The sage keeps what is already at hand and does not pursue what has yet to be obtained. Pursuing what one lacks may cause one to lose what one already has; cultivating what one has may allow what one desires to come of its own accord.

A military commander first makes himself invulnerable to defeat, then waits for a chance to overcome the enemy. A ruler first makes the foundations of the state secure, then waits for an opening in the opponent’s position. When Shun cultivated himself at Mount Li, all under Heaven was transformed. When King Wen cultivated himself in Qizhou, the customs of all under Heaven changed. If Shun had pursued the profits of ruling all under Heaven and forgotten to cultivate himself, he could not even have preserved himself—how could he have possessed an inch of land? To govern before one’s rule is secure enough to prevent disorder is dangerous. To seek a reputation before one’s conduct is free of fault is also sure to end in failure.

The greatest good fortune is to have no calamities; the finest gain is to suffer no loss. Whatever one does brings change: there may be loss or gain, success or ruin, benefit or harm. Risk lies everywhere. Thus, following the Way means avoiding danger. Qin defeated the Rong, only to be defeated by Jin at Yao. Chu subdued the feudal lords of the Xia, only to be defeated by Wu at Baiju. This shows that the Way cannot be used to hasten the pursuit of gain, but can bring a person to rest safely beyond the reach of harm. Being free of calamity time and again does not mean that good fortune will always come; being free of blame time and again does not mean that one will always achieve merit.

The sage does not overthink or make plans for advance reserves. He does not welcome those who arrive or escort those who leave. Wherever people go—to the east, west, south, or north—he remains at ease in the center. Amid all forms of deviation, he does not lose his integrity; while the people of the world drift with the current, he alone does not depart from his roots. He follows the way of Heaven, neither making a show of goodness nor deliberately avoiding ugliness. He does not take the lead in initiating things or impose his own will on others, but follows the natural course of things. He makes no plans in advance and misses no opportunity, responding to the seasons. He neither forces himself to obtain things nor refuses his share of good fortune, following Heaven’s law. He seeks nothing he does not possess and casts away nothing he already has. No calamity is summoned from within, and no good fortune is deliberately sought from without. When neither calamity nor good fortune is brought on by human contrivance, where could resentment or harm arise?

When people do good, others watch; when they do evil, others talk. Being watched may bring honor, but it may also invite gossip and calamity. Thus, the arts of the Way cannot be used to seek fame, but can instead be turned to the cultivation of oneself; they cannot be used to scheme for gain, but can help one avoid harm. The sage does not seek a reputation through his actions or praise through his cleverness. He cultivates himself by following the natural Way, without deliberately intervening or making arrangements.

Thought cannot match the many changes in things; action cannot match the power of Virtue; and particular affairs cannot compare with the vastness of the Dao. Deliberate action sometimes fails; deliberate pursuit sometimes brings no result. Human circumstances have limits, but the Dao has no point at which it cannot proceed. Struggle against the Dao, and disaster will follow. Thus the Book of Odes says: “Do not deliberately seek knowledge or understanding; simply follow the laws of the Lord of Heaven.”

Those who are wise but do not act deliberately accord with the Dao just as those without wisdom do. Those who are capable but do not set out to accomplish specific tasks accord with De just as those without ability do. Though wise, they notice that something has changed only when someone else tells them; they realize they have done something only when someone else puts them to work. Such people are wise yet seem unwisely, capable yet seem incapable. They follow what is right without imposing their own will, and so accord with the Dao; they are capable yet do not set out to accomplish specific tasks, and so accord with De. This is the proper state of the Way.

Thus, one whose achievements extend throughout the world does not boast of his fine reputation; one whose kindness benefits later generations does not claim the credit. When the Way is put into practice, contrived refinements disappear. Reputation and the Way cannot both shine at once. Once people pursue reputation, the Way becomes difficult to put into practice; when the Way prevails, reputation fades. When the Way and human reputation compete for prominence, those who make their personal reputations shine cause the Way to recede. “Zhang” means to shine forth; “xi” means to cease. When personal reputation rises and the Way fades, danger is close at hand. So when everyone in the world claims the title of sage, decline is not far off.

Those who seek to claim a reputation must display good deeds; those who seek to display good deeds will inevitably create many affairs. When affairs multiply, people abandon the public good and turn toward private gain, weighing the profits and losses of property and acting according to their own wishes. They hope to earn praise by doing good, and to establish a reputation through their practical deeds. As a result, they govern without following established principles and act without regard for the right moment. Governance that departs from the constant Way draws ever more criticism; actions taken at the wrong time are unlikely to succeed. When criticism is plentiful and results are meager, those who cannot cope begin to act recklessly, hoping by sheer luck to get things right. They impose their own will and count on accidental success. Even if they succeed, this cannot make up for their earlier mistakes; if they fail, they may not suffer any harm themselves. To treat doing good with the same caution as doing wrong is to come close to the Dao.

The world is not without honest people, yet when people divide up property, they still draw lots to determine each person’s share. “Picking a tally” means drawing a marked stick. People believe that a fair division overseen by someone with selfish motives is less reliable than one made by someone without them. The world is not without upright people, yet when guarding valuables, people still shut the doors and seal them. They believe that a greedy person’s attempt to remain honest is less reliable than the conduct of someone without greed.

When others point out our faults, we resent them; when we admit our own faults, we often invite resentment as well. A mirror reveals a person’s ugliness, yet people still regard it as a good mirror. “Jian” means mirror. If we could respond to things as a mirror receives what is placed before it, without adding our own likes and dislikes, we would avoid being entangled by external things. A mirror reflects a person’s appearance without favoring or disliking what it shows.

Gongsun Long became obsessed with verbal disputation, using it to win fame and profit. He put forward claims such as “a white horse is not a horse” and “ice is not cold; charcoal is not hot.” Deng Xi was skilled at sophistry but disrupted the laws and institutions. He taught people in the state of Zheng how to litigate, making both sides in every dispute unwilling to yield, and was therefore executed by Zichan. Su Qin was skilled at persuasion, yet his efforts led to the destruction of states, and he himself died in Qi.

Following the path of such people makes it difficult for good conduct to become clear. When one pursues only technique, the true principles are obscured. Competing with others through technique may seem bright at first, but the outcome turns dark; governing a state through clever schemes may seem orderly at first, but often ends in disorder. Letting water flow downhill is something anyone can do; making it flow uphill takes skill. Excessive ornament therefore conceals simplicity, while crooked ingenuity blocks the right way.

Virtue can be used to cultivate oneself, but it cannot force others to display virtue at once. Principles can be used to govern oneself, but they cannot be used to plunge others into disorder. Even someone with the ability and virtue of a sage may, without the right time, do no more than preserve himself, and may never establish royal rule. Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou were able to become kings because they lived under tyrants such as Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang. It was not that Tang and Wu used their own virtue to create the tyranny of Jie and Zhou. Rather, they encountered that particular moment and so were able to establish royal rule. Thus even an enlightened ruler must meet the right opportunity. To “meet” an opportunity means to happen upon the moment and thereby gain a chance; it is not something one can actively obtain through intelligence and ability alone.

A gentleman cultivates virtue without turning good deeds into tools for winning fame. He practices benevolence without drawing attention to it. Thus, scholars do good without knowing where their good deeds come from; the people receive benefits without knowing where those benefits come from; and the state settles into order of its own accord. If good deeds are deliberately displayed, scholars will compete for fame. If the source of benefits is advertised, the people will compete for credit. Once competition for fame and credit begins, even a worthy ruler will find it difficult to govern. This is why the sage conceals the traces of good deeds and does not build a reputation by practicing benevolence.

Seeking support by cultivating ties with other rulers, or seeking security by serving a great power, is less effective than first putting one’s own state in order and waiting for the right moment. Serving another state means either offering valuable goods or speaking humbly. When one exchanges jade, silk, and other valuables, the goods may run out while the other side’s desires remain unsatisfied. A deferential manner and tactful words may bring understanding for a time, but do not necessarily create a firm relationship. Treaties and oaths may also be broken soon after they are made. Even ceding a small amount of territory to serve another state cannot ensure safety without a way to defend oneself.

If one can truly set aside plans to seek alliances and aid from abroad, attend carefully to domestic affairs, make full use of the land to build up reserves, and inspire the people to defend their cities; if those above and below share one purpose, and ruler and ministers unite to protect the state; and if the people are willing to risk their lives rather than abandon it, then they will not attack other states without cause, and those seeking profit will not rashly attack a city they cannot easily conquer. This is the way to ensure the state’s security.

The people need principles they can follow together and laws they can observe together. Principles alone are not enough to make people restrain one another, and authority alone is not enough to make them obey one another. That is why a ruler is established to unify the people’s will. When the ruler holds to a single guiding principle, the state can be governed; when government orders have no fixed standard, the state falls into disorder.

The ruler’s way is not to do everything personally, but to be skilled in Wuwei (non-action). What is Wuwei? The wise do not use their office to satisfy private desires; the brave do not use their office to act violently; and the benevolent do not treat their office as a means of making profit. This can be called Wuwei. Wuwei means holding to the single principle at the root of things. “The One” is the root of all things and the principle that keeps a state free from foreign attack.

People’s dispositions change with age: the young are prone to recklessness and arrogance, adults to forcefulness and violence, and the old to greed for gain. A person’s disposition changes many times over a lifetime; all the more so when a ruler frequently changes laws and a state repeatedly changes rulers. People use their official positions to express their likes and dislikes, and this gives rise to numerous and confusing ways of conducting affairs among the ministers. Once the ruler loses the single guiding standard, the resulting disorder can be even worse than having no ruler at all. The Book of Songs says, “Commit no wrong, do not forget the laws; follow the old institutions in all things.” This is the point being made.

When a ruler likes to show off his cleverness, he acts on his own will without regard for the times, abandons established methods, and relies instead on his personal calculations. The affairs of the world are many, while one person’s wisdom is limited. No one can use limited understanding to manage the countless complexities of the world. Judging everything by one’s own cleverness is bound to lead to many mistakes. Thus, flaunting one’s intelligence is a way of driving matters into difficulty.

When a ruler likes to flaunt his courage, he looks down on his enemies, neglects to prepare for danger, relies on his own abilities, and refuses help from others. One person’s strength cannot readily overcome a powerful enemy without the support of the many; relying on oneself alone is bound to prove inadequate. Thus, flaunting one’s courage is dangerous.

When a ruler likes to bestow favors but has no consistent standard, those above distribute them unpredictably, and those below come to expect more without limit. If the ruler collects more taxes to fill the treasury, he will incur the people’s resentment. Yet there has never been a practice of collecting little in taxes while giving out lavish rewards. Thus, giving freely without restraint is a way of inviting resentment.

Benevolence, intelligence, courage, and strength are all fine human abilities, but they are not enough to govern the world. It follows that one cannot rely solely on the personal talents of capable people; one must instead cultivate and make clear the “arts of the Dao”—the principles of following the patterns of things and governing the world.

The sage can overcome selfishness. Here, “the heart” refers to the source from which desires arise. The sage stills desire and so can restrain selfishness, taking the people’s wishes as his own. Ordinary people, by contrast, must restrain their desires: though they may feel wants within, they can overcome them and bring them to a halt.

The noble person preserves an upright and even disposition, while the petty person indulges in a deviant and crooked one. To accord with one’s nature, act in keeping with what is right, follow the way things work, and avoid letting external things disturb oneself: this is upright vital energy. To chase after food and drink, lose oneself in sights and sounds, give free rein to anger and joy without regard for the consequences: this is deviant energy.

Deviant and upright energy harm one another; desire and nature come into conflict and cannot coexist. When one gains the upper hand, the other suffers. Therefore, sages restrain desire and act in accord with human nature. The eyes delight in beauty, the ears in sounds, and the mouth and tongue in fine flavors. Add to these anger and joy unleashed without regard for consequences, and cravings make it impossible to distinguish benefit from harm: eating damages the body, listening to sounds goes against the Dao, and looking at things violates one’s nature. The eyes, ears, and mouth—the “three palaces” (here referring to sensory activities such as eating, seeing, and hearing)—contend with one another. The heart judges among them according to what is right.

Cutting out a sore is painful, and drinking bitter medicine is bitter, yet both benefit the body. Drinking water when thirsty is refreshing, and eating one’s fill when hungry satisfies the appetite, but this is no reason to indulge without restraint, since doing so may damage one’s nature. This shows that the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth do not know for themselves what to take and what to give up. The heart must restrain them and ensure that each is satisfied in due measure.

From this we can see that desire cannot be quieted simply by satisfying it without limit. Anyone who would care for the body and nurture their nature should regulate sleep and daily routines, adjust their diet, keep anger and joy even, and give due measure to activity and rest. When one’s way of life is properly ordered, deviant energy has little chance to arise. Why wait for illness to appear before worrying about sores and taking precautions? A great cauldron large enough to hold a whole ox can be brought to a boil, yet flies and mosquitoes still dare not enter it. Even if the jade ornaments from Mount Kunlun gather dust, they do not thereby lose their value.

The sage has no deliberate intention to reject anything, and so nothing appears ugly in the heart. Nor does the sage deliberately pursue what is beautiful, and so beauty is not lost. Thus, when making offerings, one remembers loved ones without seeking blessings in return; when hosting guests, one treats them with respect without hoping for repayment. Precisely because no repayment is sought, one can obtain what one truly desires.

A person in a position of authority upholds fairness without partiality. People therefore call that person honored, not wise. One who possesses vast lands follows the constant way without resorting to schemes. People therefore call that person evenhanded, not clever. Such a person commits no acts of cruelty at home, so as not to provoke the people’s resentment, and makes no show of virtue abroad, so as not to arouse the rulers’ suspicion. The rites of those above and below pass between them without breaking their connection. Those who discuss government often fail to see the principle at work here. This is what is meant by “concealing without revealing.” If one does not conceal one’s traces, who can make them unseen? “Traces” here means signs that have emerged and can be noticed by others.

The principles followed by the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties were to act in response to circumstances. Yu opened channels through the rivers in response to the flow of water; Hou Ji sowed grain in response to the nature of the land; Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou quelled rebellion in response to the times. Thus, the world can be gained by following the current of events, but not by seizing it by force. The position of hegemon or king can be accepted when circumstances bring it about, but it cannot be won by pursuing it single-mindedly.

If you contend through cunning, others will contend with you through cunning; if you contend through force, others will challenge you with force. You cannot make others lack intelligence or strength, but you can prevent them from using their intelligence and strength against you. These two approaches often have effects that endure over time. Thus, when a ruler is capable without showing sharpness, the feudal lords will not be constantly on guard. When the ruler does not appear inept or incapable, the people will not resent them. When the people do not resent the ruler, the ruler can win their support; when the feudal lords are not on guard, the ruler can take up the opportunity presented by the times and receive the world. Tang’s overthrow of Jie of Xia and King Wu’s overthrow of Zhou of Shang both arose in response to the times. Their actions were shared with the people, and their achievements came about in accord with the times; they were not created from nothing by a sage acting alone. Thus, the Laozi says, “The tiger finds no place to sink its claws, and the rhinoceros finds no place to thrust its horn.” This is precisely the principle.

A drum is not exhausted by being struck because the act of drumming is shared by many, and its effect appears only when the time is right. The sage does not place himself at the center or claim credit for what he has done. This is what the Laozi means when it says, “The tiger has nowhere to set its claws, and the rhinoceros nowhere to set its horn.”

A drum does not disappear into the sound it makes, and so it can produce sound; a mirror is not obscured by the images reflected in it, and so it can show them. Metal and stone can make sounds, but without being struck they do not ring out. Pipes and flutes can produce music, but without being played they make no sound. The sage keeps what is within him concealed and does not take the lead in advocating anything. Only when matters arise does he deal with them; only when things appear does he respond. Deliberately embellishing one’s outward appearance harms what is within. Losing one’s true nature harms the spirit. Attending only to surface ornament obscures the essence of things.

Those who never let go, even for a moment, of deliberately preserving their essence will surely be constrained by their own nature. If they are always trying to display their essence without following what is natural, their nature will be bound. Those who walk a hundred paces while constantly worrying about their appearance will surely be burdened by their outward form. Thus, wings grown too beautiful can damage the bones. A swan should fly a thousand miles; if it pursues the beauty of its feathers too single-mindedly, its body will be harmed as though covered in dust. Branches and leaves that grow too luxuriantly can hinder the roots and stems. In all the world, branches and leaves and roots and stems cannot both flourish excessively without suffering harm.

Heaven is bright, yet it does not worry that the people live in darkness. The people open doors and cut windows for themselves, and so they obtain light. The earth holds riches, yet it does not worry that the people are poor. The people fell trees and cut down plants for themselves, and so they make their lives abundant. Those of the highest De (Virtue/Power), who have grasped the great Dao, are like a hill or mountain: still and unmoving. Travelers use them as a point of reference, and those who follow the Way take them as a guide. They need only set themselves aright to bring abundance to all things, just as a mountain naturally gives rise to all kinds of life and sustains the people. It does not produce things deliberately for their sake. It does not consciously bestow favors, and those who use its gifts do not credit it with benevolence; therefore it can remain at peace for a long time.

Heaven and earth do not deliberately bestow, and so there is nothing to take away from them. The sun and moon do not deliberately show favor, and so they incur no resentment. Those who delight in bestowing favors often invite resentment when those favors are withdrawn; those who delight in giving must also experience having things taken from them. Only by removing the traces of one’s actions and following Wuwei (non-action) and the natural order of heaven and earth can one overcome desires and accord with what is right. If one accepts renown, renown rises and the Dao can be put into practice. But once the Dao becomes a name for which people praise someone, that person may lose his proper place. Thus, when praise appears, slander follows; when good deeds are displayed, resentment arises in their wake. Gain is often the beginning of calamity, and good fortune often the harbinger of disaster. Only those who seek no gain avoid inviting calamity; only those who seek no good fortune avoid inviting disaster.

If a feudal lord pursues hegemony single-mindedly, he will surely lose his position as a lord. If a hegemon pursues rule over all under Heaven single-mindedly, he will surely lose his hegemony. Thus, a state’s enduring condition is to preserve itself; hegemony and kingship are only temporary roles. A person’s enduring condition is to remain alive; wealth and honor are only temporary roles. Only someone who does not damage his state for the sake of gain in all under Heaven, or damage himself for the sake of his state, may be entrusted with all under Heaven. This means that only someone who does not covet the gains of all under Heaven may be entrusted with it.

Those who do not understand the great Dao abandon what they already possess and pursue what they have not yet obtained. They exhaust their minds in schemes and are weighed down by worry, resorting to crooked methods. So they rejoice when good fortune comes and fear when disaster arrives. Their spirit is spent on plotting, and their intelligence is hurried from one task to another. Blessings and calamities arise without end, yet in the end they still do not know to repent. They bring blessings and calamities upon themselves, then blame others. When they cannot find joy, they sink into sorrow; their hearts are never at peace. They have no guiding standard by which to observe and follow the world. This is what it means to live recklessly. Those who do not know how to take the times as their guide, and whose support is not mysterious De, will become such people.

When a ruler favors benevolence, he rewards those without merit and pardons those who have committed crimes. When he favors punishment, he rejects those who have merit and executes the innocent. If the ruler favors neither side, the people can live in peace. If he has no guiding principles, or follows principles other than Dark De—profound and natural Virtue—chaos will result.

When the ruler favors neither benevolence nor punishment, rewards and penalties will arouse no resentment. He bestows favor without thinking himself a benefactor, acts according to principles, and does not involve himself in specific affairs. Like Heaven and Earth, he covers and supports all things. The ruler decides whom to pardon; laws determine whom to punish. Once the people have been punished, their resentment cannot simply be dispelled. This is what it means to follow the Dao. When the Dao is put into practice, the people have no troubles to worry about.

The sage does not wear unusual clothes. “Short” means too short, and “strange” means too long; clothing that falls outside the proper measure brings trouble upon its wearer. The sage does nothing eccentric and does not show off what he wears or invite the crowd to watch and judge his conduct. He is capable without being ostentatious, and in hardship he is unafraid. When honored, he does not boast; when he withdraws, he is not distressed. His conduct differs from that of others without seeming bizarre. A state that cannot be captured by ordinary labels is called “Great Thoroughfare”: unobstructed and free.

Ritual gestures such as ascending and descending, bowing, yielding, walking briskly, and circling about are performed only when circumstances require them; they are not part of human nature from the outset. If human feelings had no natural foundation or standard, people would not truly cherish these rituals. Singing when compelled does not mean deliberately displaying sorrow; dancing when compelled does not mean deliberately flaunting beauty. Without a corresponding foundation in the heart, any display of sorrow or beauty is merely forced. “Compelled” here means establishing rituals in response to the times, not creating them without cause.

A skilled chess player does not make winning the goal. While playing, he does not fear losing. He keeps his mind steady, holds to the proper measure, and follows the principles of the game. Even if he does not necessarily win, he can still make more calculations. Victory and defeat depend on method and the circumstances of the game, not on the desire to win.

A chariot racer does not crave taking the lead or fear falling behind. He adjusts the pace of the chariot and brings his own mind into harmony with the horses. Even if he does not necessarily arrive first, he can bring out the horses’ full strength. Taking the lead depends on method, not desire. Thus, when craving is dispelled, method can do its work; when cunning and self-serving cleverness are set aside, the Dao can take hold.

A merchant with too many lines of business may end up poor; a craftsperson with too many skills may end up in difficulty, because the mind cannot stay focused. When a tree grows too luxuriantly, its branches are hindered; when water surges too forcefully, its depth is diminished. Wisdom without method is like drilling a hole: the deeper one drills, the harder it becomes to reach through. With many branches but no main path, whatever one gains for a time cannot be kept. Thus the Book of Songs says, “The good and worthy gentleman is correct and consistent in bearing, steadfast and unwavering at heart.” A gentleman, then, should probably devote himself to remaining focused on the One.

Shun played the five-stringed zither and sang the “Song of the South Wind.” The ancient zither originally had five strings; it was not expanded to seven, in keeping with the seven musical modes, until the Zhou dynasty. The “Song of the South Wind” expressed harmony and joy. It spoke of governing all under Heaven through the way of harmony and joy. Yet even if one grasps this principle, it is useless without the ability to hold fast to it. Thus the Book of Songs says, “The noble and good gentleman keeps his bearing constant and his heart steadfast.” A gentleman should gather his resolve and keep it focused.

Duke of Zhou attended to affairs of state before King Cheng without regard for his own fatigue. He did not even take down the hanging bells and drums to rest, but assisted the king until all under Heaven was settled. An ordinary man and woman, tending a hundred mu of land, toil all day without time to move elsewhere and rest. But even with all the time in the world, one person could not necessarily finish governing the affairs of all under Heaven if he tried to hear every matter himself. So affairs must be entrusted to officials at every level.

Those in the highest positions should be like the “corpse” in a sacrifice—the person who represents the spirit being honored—while those who manage practical affairs should be like the ritual officiant and steward, who conduct the rites and prepare the offerings. Even if the corpse knows how to butcher a dog or roast a pig, he does not do these things himself; this does not compromise his role. He need not personally attend to the dog and pig, and is not thereby neglecting his duty. He may know the order in which the ritual vessels should be arranged and the sequence for laying out millet and other grains, yet need not teach these matters himself. If he does not understand such details, but intervenes anyway, he may cause trouble. Someone unable to conduct prayers should not serve as a ritual officiant, but that does not prevent him from serving as the corpse. As long as he does not obstruct the duties of the role, he may serve as the corpse. Someone who cannot drive a chariot should not be its driver, but may serve as an assistant. The higher one’s position, the more one should withdraw from practical tasks; the greater one’s responsibility, the fewer trivial matters one should handle personally.

This is like tuning a zither: when the small strings are taut, the large strings should be loosened. Wuwei (non-action) is the fundamental state of the Dao (the Way), and taking the rear position is its expression. Using non-action to guide action is the method of governance; letting those behind restrain those in front is the pattern by which things operate. Follow the method and one can grow strong; understand the pattern and one can bring stability.

For example, suppose someone entrusts a jade disk—a precious jade object—to another person. Before the other person has received it, the one who reaches out first takes the leading position. But once the other person asks for the disk and takes it, he may feel displeased yet does not resist; he is the one who now holds the initiative. Three people live together. Two of them quarrel, each believing himself to be right, and neither will listen to the other. A third person standing nearby, even if not especially clever, can judge the dispute from the side. This is not because he is particularly wise, but because he is not caught up in the quarrel. Two people fight, and a weak person stands nearby. By helping one fighter, he can give that person the upper hand; by persuading one of them to stop, he can help him escape. Even a strong fighter can be controlled by this bystander. This is not because the bystander is brave, but because he has not joined the fight. From this we can see that the one who comes after can restrain the one who comes first, and stillness can overcome agitation. This is the pattern of things.

To turn away from the right path and abandon its patterns in the hope of gaining by luck; to change established ways and discard old standards in pursuit of accidental success; to take a chance gain as proof that one is right, or an occasional result as an omen; to act recklessly in secret, make one mistaken change after another, and never come to one’s senses—all this is called arrogance. To retreat whenever one meets an obstacle, grow lax when fortune comes, regret one’s mistakes, boast of one’s achievements, and never know to turn back: this is the way of an arrogant person.

A circle conforms to the compass, and a square to the carpenter’s square. Conduct conforms to ritual law, and thus the proper forms and refinements can take shape. In ancient rites, offerings of lambs, deer, and other animals were used because, it is said, they kneel to nurse their young and gather in herds without forming factions. Ritual can be used to govern a small group, but it is unsuitable for governing a large population when made too elaborate. Even small plants such as smartweed can be arranged in rows; vessels such as jars and bowls have stands beneath them. Measuring out grain for pounding and counting each grain of rice for cooking may suit the management of a household, but not the governance of a state. Washing a cup before eating and a wine cup before drinking, and personally arranging the meal, may suit caring for elders at home, but not entertaining an army.

Governing great affairs depends on simplicity; uniting many people depends on restraint. Grand music must be simple, and solemn ritual must be concise. Music is simple so that it accords with nature; ritual is concise so that it can establish order. True grand music does not stir resentment, and true great ritual does not burden people with excessive demands. Thus people throughout the four seas can rally to the ruler, who can then achieve imperial greatness.

Someone burdened with sorrow cannot sleep soundly, even on a square bed with soft mats. Even wild rice and roast beef seem tasteless to them, and music played on zithers, flutes, and reed pipes brings no joy. Only when distress has passed and troubles have been relieved can food taste good, sleep be peaceful, one’s home feel comfortable, and one’s recreation bring pleasure. This shows that life has its own joys, just as death has its own grief. People today pursue things that cannot make life joyful, while harming the very things that can. Thus even someone who possesses all under Heaven and holds the rank of Son of Heaven cannot escape becoming a sorrowful person.

Human nature delights in quiet simplicity and dislikes sorrow; it enjoys ease and dislikes toil. When the heart is free of desire, this may be called quiet simplicity; when the body is free of distracting burdens, this may be called ease. Let the mind and spirit rest in quiet simplicity, and let the body relax from labor. Accept what Heaven has decreed, find contentment within, and do not rush after external things. Then, even if the world were vast, it could not alter one’s principles; even as the sun and moon secretly move on, they could not fill one’s heart with other desires.

Thus, even in a lowly position, one can be as free and at ease as someone honored; even in poverty, one can be as content as someone wealthy. The Dao (the Way), the fundamental principle of all things under Heaven, has no fixed form. The greatest benevolence shows no special preference for those close to oneself; the finest eloquence does not rely on winning through sound; those who are truly incorruptible do not boast of their virtue, and those who are truly brave do not display their strength. None of these five virtues should be neglected; only then can one draw near to the Dao.

Too many orders in an army lead to confusion, and too many rules at a drinking gathering lead to arguments. Confusion makes people flee in defeat; arguments make them harm one another. A matter begun at a higher level often has more room to develop than one begun at a lower level; a matter begun in joy is often easier to carry forward than one begun in sorrow. When the beginning is simple, the ending is usually harmonious as well.

Today, people prepare fine wine and good food to welcome guests, then bow modestly and exchange polite words, hoping to deepen their pleasure together. Yet they argue over whether the cups should be filled to the brim, and the feast gives rise to fighting. The fighting injures people and may even set three generations of kin against one another. In the end, they do precisely what makes them dislike one another. This is how drinking and feasting can ruin human relations.

The failing of the Book of Odes is its tendency toward partiality. Poetry reflects the customs of a declining age, and was therefore used to correct what was distorted. When people lose the right way, they stray into crooked paths. The failing of music is excessive reproach. At the village drinking ceremony, the “Deer Cry” is performed. Some believe that this poem reproaches a ruler who prepared wine and food but did not summon his ministers, leaving them resentful. This interpretation is mistaken. The failing of ritual is to turn generosity into a demand for repayment. Ritual requires reciprocity: if one gives something to another and insists on being repaid, one has lost the true purpose of ritual.

The five musical notes—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—contain one another; the zhi note does not lack the sound of yu, nor does yu lack the sound of zhi. Each of the five has its own pitch, and it is named zhi or yu because that note predominates within it. The sage possesses benevolence, righteousness, wisdom, and courage alike; yet a single name is used to describe him in order to emphasize the quality that stands out most.

Yang energy rises in the northeast and reaches its limit in the southwest; Yin energy rises in the southwest and reaches its limit in the northeast. At first, Yin and Yang are balanced and close to one another. Then each gradually grows, until they move farther and farther apart. Yang energy begins to increase during the cold season, gradually bringing warmth and eventually reaching intense heat. When Yin-Yang change falls out of balance, sand and stone scorch in the heat, while water freezes into ice in the cold. The sage therefore treats the accumulation and transformation of things with care. Water flows down from the mountains and eventually joins the sea; crops grow in the fields and are eventually stored in the granary. By observing how things begin, one can infer how they will end.

Mats were originally made from rushes, sedge, and reeds. Among the vessels used for sacrifice, the most honored holds dark, unseasoned water; raw fish is placed first on the sacrificial stand, and plain broth is placed in the wooden offering vessel. These things are not splendid to the eye or ear, nor are they delicacies to the palate. Yet the former kings valued them highly because they were used in ancestral temple sacrifices. They did so to honor the roots, placing what is fundamental before what is merely an offshoot.

The sage responds to the myriad things amid circumstances that change in countless ways. He must have a foundation that does not change with them, while also being able to respond appropriately as they change.

Cold is the opposite of warmth. In extreme cold, the earth splits with frost and rivers freeze, yet fire does not thereby grow any less hot. In scorching heat, stones melt and metal flows, yet fire does not thereby become more intense. Changes between cold and heat neither diminish nor increase fire itself; that is simply the nature of fire. Human nature, too, is like fire: it does not change easily.

The sage always stays behind rather than rushing ahead, and follows the course of events rather than leading the charge. He does not strive to advance, nor does he yield in order to gain something. If he follows the current of events for three years, then when that current moves away from him, he finds himself in front. If the current moves away for three years, he finds himself behind it once more. He neither departs from it nor clings to it, but rests calmly in his own place.

The Dao of Heaven favors no one; it helps only those who possess De (Virtue/Power). A person who follows the Dao does not miss the right moment or treat others unjustly. To miss the right moment is to lose it. Such a person does not miss an opportunity merely to please others. One who does not follow the Dao, by contrast, misses the moment and then tries to borrow strength from other people. Set yourself upright and await what fate brings. When the moment arrives, you cannot meet it and pull it back toward you; you can only find a way to grasp it and accord with it. Once it has passed, you cannot pursue it and bring it back. So do not say, “I have no means, so the world is far beyond my reach,” or, “I do not want it, so the world will not come to me.”

In ancient times, those skilled at preserving themselves took joy in De and did not dwell on having low status, so fame could not alter their aspirations. They took joy in the Dao and did not dwell on poverty, so gain could not disturb their hearts. Even if fame and profit filled the whole world, they would not be enough to shake their resolve. Thus they could remain content in every circumstance, their hearts quiet and untroubled. Only those who have cultivated themselves well can speak of the Dao. Looking backward, a human life reaches into the vastness of remote antiquity; looking forward, it extends from death into the endless expanse of Heaven and Earth. If life is measured by the years, one cycle runs from Zi to Hai. To fret over turmoil in the world is like complaining that a river has too little water and trying to add more by weeping. A tortoise can live for three thousand years, while a mayfly lives no more than three days. If someone used a mayfly’s way of nourishing life to worry about a tortoise, people would surely find it laughable. So there is no need to worry endlessly about turmoil in the world. Devote yourself instead to cultivating your own person; only then can you speak of the Dao.

A noble person may do good and still fail to gain wealth or high status; refraining from wrongdoing does not guarantee that disaster will never come. Good fortune often arrives without being sought, so one does not boast of one’s merit. Disaster, too, may arrive without having been brought on by one’s own actions, so one does not regret how one has acted. If someone has cultivated the heart to its utmost yet still encounters an unexpected calamity, that is due to the decree of Heaven, not to human action. Therefore, keep the heart serene and untroubled, and continue to accumulate De. Even when you hear a dog bark, do not be alarmed; trust firmly in your original nature. Those who understand the principles are not confused; those who understand fate are not troubled.

After a ruler dies, his body is buried in the wilderness, while the spirits and deities receive offerings in the Bright Hall, the temple where they are worshipped. This shows that spirit is more precious than the physical form: a person’s spirit is honored in the hall, while the body remains out in the wilderness. When spirit can govern the body, the body will obey. Here, “spirit” refers to one’s inner feelings and intentions: when desires do not arise recklessly, the body can follow the heart and remain in harmony. If the body’s agitation overcomes the spirit, the spirit becomes exhausted and scattered. Even when using intelligence and skill, one should gather them inward and settle the spirit; only then can the body be preserved. This is called “Great Harmony,” a state of balance between inner and outer. “Harmony” means bringing things into accord.

End of Volume Twenty-One of the Huainan Honglie Jie.

Note on textual collation at the end of the volume: Several characters and phrases were omitted or written incorrectly in the text. The editors consulted editions such as the Jijie edition to supply missing characters and correct errors. For example, they supplied “to discuss,” “at the time,” and “not,” and changed “not yet, but” to “but not yet.”

Volume Twenty-Two of the Huainan Honglie Jie

Recorded by Xu Shen, Libationer to the Grand Commandant

“An Instruction on Military Strategy”

The word “military” carries the sense of preparedness: its purpose is to prevent disorder from arising. The key to preventing disorder lies in strategy. This chapter explains the purpose of using military force and the principles of commanding troops in battle.

In ancient times, warfare was not waged to expand territory or covet gold, jade, and other wealth. It was waged to save states on the verge of destruction, continue lineages that were about to die out, quell calamities and disorder throughout the realm, and relieve the people’s suffering.

All animals endowed with blood and breath—those with teeth and horns, foreclaws and hind hooves—attack or play according to their own instincts. Those with horns butt, those with teeth bite, those with poison sting, and those with hooves kick. When pleased, they frolic together; when angry, they injure one another. This is their inborn nature. Human beings, too, need food and clothing, but supplies cannot always meet everyone’s needs. When people live together and goods are unevenly distributed, or their needs go unmet, disputes arise. In such conflicts, the strong force the weak, and the brave bully the timid. Humans have neither powerful bones and sinews nor sharp claws and teeth, so they cut leather to make armor and smelt iron into blades.

Greedy and benighted people bring harm to the realm, throwing the people into turmoil and making even their own possessions impossible to keep secure. The sages therefore rise up to punish the violent, pacify an age of disorder, and sweep away danger and corruption. They restore clarity amid confusion and turn peril into security. For this reason, they have no choice but to use warfare to put an end to calamity. A commentary explains that “the line cut off” refers to circumstances such as the interruption and destruction of the state’s Way under King Zhou of Shang.

Warfare has a long history. The Yellow Emperor once fought the Flame Emperor, the late ruler of the Shennong clan, and defeated him at Banquan. Zhuanxu also contended with Gonggong for the imperial throne; according to legend, Gonggong crashed into Mount Buzhou. The Yellow Emperor also fought Chiyou in the wilderness of Zhuolu, which lies in Shanggu. Yao fought by the Dan River, having been ordered to punish an unrighteous foe; the Dan River lies in Nanyang. Shun attacked Youmiao, also known as the Three Miao. Yu’s son Qi attacked Youhu at Gandi, in Youfufeng Commandery. If even the age of the Five Emperors could not put an end to warfare altogether, how much less could later ages of decline and disorder do so?

War is used to stop atrocities and punish disorder. The Flame Emperor caused fires, so the Yellow Emperor captured him; Gonggong caused floods, so Zhuanxu destroyed him. First teach with reason and guide with virtue. If the other side will not listen, warn them through force and military power. If they still refuse to comply after the warning, then use weapons and troops to quell the disorder.

When a sage uses military force, it is like combing hair or hoeing weeds from among the crops: little is removed, but much good comes of it. Killing innocent people to sustain an unjust ruler is the greatest harm; exhausting the world’s wealth to satisfy one person’s desires is the gravest calamity.

Had Xia Jie and Yin Zhou been stopped as soon as they began harming the people, they would never have carried out the punishment of roasting people alive. Had someone restrained Duke Li of Jin and King Kang of Song when they first committed unjust acts, they would not have seized what belonged to others and acted with such cruelty, ending in death and the destruction of their states. These four rulers began with only minor wrongs, but no one punished or restrained them. Later they ravaged the world and harmed the people, indulging one person’s wickedness and deepening the world’s disorder. This is precisely the kind of conduct that the great duty of justice demands we punish and cannot permit.

A ruler is established to stop atrocities and punish disorder. Yet now a ruler uses the strength of the people to harm and oppress them in turn. This is like giving a tiger wings: how could he not be removed? Those who raise fish must rid the waters of otters, and those who raise livestock must rid the land of jackals and wolves. How much more should those who govern the people remove tyrants who bring harm upon them.

Thus the hegemon—a ruler who establishes his supremacy through virtue and righteousness—first analyzes and considers the use of force, then plans through strategy, and grounds it in moral principle. He does not wage war to destroy another state or merely keep it alive, but to save it from ruin.

When he hears that a rival state’s ruler is abusing the people, he sends troops to the border, condemns the ruler’s injustice, and exposes his wrongs. Once the army reaches the outskirts, the commander issues orders: do not cut down trees, disturb graves, trample crops, burn grain, destroy stored supplies, abduct the people, or seize livestock.

He then proclaims: “The ruler of that state is arrogant and discourteous. He shows no reverence for Heaven’s spirits, wrongs the innocent in his judgments, and kills those who have committed no crime. This is why Heaven intends to punish him and why the people resent him. We have sent our army to abolish injustice and restore government founded on virtue. Anyone who defies the Way of Heaven and leads the people into wrongdoing will die, and his family will be destroyed. Those who submit with one household will receive a stipend for one household; those who submit with a village will be rewarded for a village; those who submit with a township will be granted a township; and those who submit with a county will be made a marquis of that county.”

After conquering the state, he does not harm its people. He removes the former ruler, changes his policies, honors outstanding men, promotes the worthy and kind, aids orphans and widows, cares for the poor, frees prisoners, and rewards those who have rendered service. The people open the city gates to welcome the army, wash and prepare their grain in advance, fearing only that the army might not come.

This is how Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou established royal rule, and how Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Wen of Jin achieved hegemony. When a ruler governs tyrannically, the people long for an army as those enduring drought long for rain, or the thirsty yearn for water. Who would want to fight such a righteous army and cross blades with it? So when a righteous army arrives, it can even quell hostilities without fighting.

In later ages, even when rulers failed to follow the right Way, armies invariably dug trenches, built walls, and raised parapets—low walls that shielded defenders—to protect themselves. Those who laid siege did so not to stop violence or root out harm, but to seize land and expand their territory. As a result, battles often left bodies strewn across the ground and rivers of blood, with the two sides locked in opposition for many days. Yet rulers capable of establishing hegemony were rare, because they acted only for their own sake.

Fighting to seize land cannot establish kingship; fighting only for personal gain cannot achieve great things. When people act with everyone’s welfare in mind, they win everyone’s support; when they seek profit only for themselves, everyone abandons them. Those who have the people’s support can grow strong even when weak; those whom the people abandon will perish, however powerful they may be.

An army that follows the Dao (the Way) will grow strong; one that turns away from it will grow weak. A general who follows the Dao will command well; one who turns away from it will act ineptly. A state that follows the Dao will endure; one that turns away from it will perish.

What is called the Dao appears outwardly as a circle, yet is followed as a square: it turns its back on Yin and faces Yang, is soft on the left and firm on the right, sets its feet in darkness and its head in brightness. It changes without constancy, yet grasps the root that unifies all things. Thus it can respond to every circumstance. This is called the numinous and mysterious—the subtle, beyond all fathoming.

The circle symbolizes Heaven; the square symbolizes Earth. Heaven is round and has no endpoints, so no one can take in its entirety. Earth is square and has no boundaries, so no one can reach its farthest edge. Heaven transforms and nurtures the myriad things without showing a form; Earth gives rise to them without their number being countable. Heaven and Earth are vast, deep, and unfathomable—who can know their mysteries? All things have signs that can be seen; only the Dao has none. All things can reveal their traces, but the Dao cannot, for it has no fixed, unchanging form or configuration.

The Dao turns in cycles without end, like the movements of the sun and moon, the alternation of spring and autumn, and the changing of day and night. When one day ends, another begins; brightness turns to darkness, and its fixed pattern is hard to discern. The Dao can employ punishments without being bound by them, and so its achievements can be accomplished. It gives rise to and governs the myriad things without being constrained by them, and so it can prevail without being overcome.

Weapons and punishments mark the furthest reach of military force. Only when one can attain the state of having no punishments can one be said to have reached the ultimate. Thus, the highest mastery in warfare causes no injury and can communicate with spirits and gods. Even when weapons are not sharpened, no one under Heaven can withstand it. The war drums need not be brought out of storage before the feudal lords are already fearful and their courage falters. One who can plan victory in the ancestral temple can establish imperial rule; one who can govern all under Heaven through numinous transformation can establish kingship. “Temple warfare” means following the way of Heaven; “numinous transformation” means following the changes of the four seasons. If good governance is cultivated at home, those far away will admire one’s De. If victory is secured before war begins, the feudal lords will respect one’s authority. The foundation of this is sound governance at home.

Those of ancient times who attained the Dao followed the patterns of Heaven and Earth in stillness and responded to the right moment in action. They cultivated good governance at home so that those far away admired their De; they gained the advantage before battle so that the feudal lords respected their authority. This depended on governance at home.

The people of ancient times who attained the Dao (the Way) modeled their stillness on the patterns of Heaven and Earth, and in action followed the movements of the sun and moon. Their shifts between joy and anger accorded with the four seasons; the force of their cries matched the thunder; their breathing never went against the winds of the eight directions; and their bending, stretching, advancing, and retreating never departed from the proper measure of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). Here, “huo” means “mistake,” and “five measures” refers to the Five Phases.

From creatures with scales in the water to birds and beasts in the sky, all things are connected and each has its proper order. From root to branch, nothing fails to follow its sequence. Thus, the Dao can enter the most subtle places without obstruction and fill the vastness of Heaven and Earth without seeming diffuse. It permeates metal and stone and nourishes plants and trees. Within the Six Directions—that is, Heaven and Earth and the four quarters—from the tiniest hair to the boundless cosmos, nothing is untouched by it or out of harmony with it. The Dao’s influence extends everywhere, subtle and gentle, leaving no place untouched; this is why it can master the balance and transformation of many things.

When shooting an arrow, if one’s movements and measurements do not meet the proper standards, the arrow misses the center of the target. If even one part of a fine horse fails to do its work, it will not reach a thousand li. When a campaign fails to win, the cause is often not that the drums sounded and the troops marched at the wrong time, but that their conduct had long since departed from what is right. “The day of beating the drums” here means the day when troops are drawn up, the drums are sounded, and battle formally begins.

Therefore, when an army that has attained the Dao sets out, there is no need to remove the blocks from beneath its chariot wheels or saddle its horses. Its drums need not raise clouds of dust, and its banners need not be unfurled. Armor need not be taken from beside the arrow cases, and blades need not be stained with blood. No official posts at court need to change; merchants need not leave their shops, and farmers need not leave their fields. When justice is upheld and brutality punished, even a powerful state will submit, and a small town will surrender of its own accord. Such action accords with the people’s wishes and draws on their strength, with the aim of rooting out brutality and eliminating harm.

When people share the same interests, they are willing to risk death for one another. When their feelings are in accord, they can help one another succeed; when their aims are the same, they support one another. Act in accordance with what is right, and people throughout the world will respond. Make plans that accord with the people’s wishes, and they will fight together.

When hunters pursue their quarry, chariots and horses race forward and people run, each doing their utmost. Even without threats of punishment, they watch one another, block the way, and corner the prey, because they all want to catch it. Here, “chi” means to scout, and “yin” means to block.

When a group of people is crossing a river by boat and suddenly encounters wind and waves, everyone, whatever their station, quickly takes up an oar and works together like a pair of hands. They help one another because they face the same danger. Thus, a wise ruler uses the army to rid the world of harm and enable the people to share in the benefits of victory. The people serve him as sons serve a father and younger brothers serve an elder brother. Wherever such an army’s might reaches, it comes like a landslide or a breached dike. Who would dare stand against it?

Those skilled in the use of arms allow things to function according to their own nature. Those unskilled in the use of arms treat everything merely as a tool to be driven for their own purposes. If you act in accord with the current, there is nothing you cannot put to use; if you think only of making things serve you, in the end you will gain very little.

There are three levels in the use of arms. What is called “reproach” is the key point. Govern the state and bring peace within its borders; put benevolence and righteousness into practice, extend generosity widely, establish proper laws, and close off paths to wrongdoing. Let the ministers draw near and pledge their allegiance, and the people live in harmony; let those above and below share one mind, and ruler and ministers work together. Let the feudal lords respect the state’s authority, and people in every direction remember its kindness. Then, by putting affairs of government in order at court, you can defeat enemy forces a thousand miles away. You need only clasp your hands and bow, directing matters with composure, and all under Heaven will respond. This is the highest level in the use of arms.

The state has a vast territory and a large population; its ruler is wise and its generals loyal; the country is prosperous and its army strong, with strict discipline and clear commands. The two armies face each other, each able to see the other’s war drums and chun, an ancient percussion instrument used to rally troops. Before the armies meet in close combat, the enemy has already broken and fled. This is the next level in the use of arms.

Know the advantages and disadvantages of the terrain in every region, and how to use strategic passes and strongholds to your advantage. Understand the changing methods of orthodox and unorthodox tactics, and the patterns of military formations, ranks, advances, withdrawals, and dispersals. Strap a drum to your arm and beat it. Only after the two sides have closed in for hand-to-hand combat and arrows have crossed in flight, with blood covering the ground, the dead carried away in carts, and the wounded supporting one another; only after rivers of blood stretch for a thousand miles and corpses cover the battlefield, do they finally decide the outcome through slaughter. This is the lowest level in the use of arms.

Today, everyone under Heaven knows how to manage the branches, but no one devotes themselves to cultivating the root. They abandon the root and nurture the branches. Though there are many means of supporting victory, what those means can achieve is still only the lowest level in the use of arms.

People throughout the world now know how to manage the details of affairs, but no one understands the need to work on their foundations. They abandon the roots of the tree and cultivate its branches and leaves.

Many conditions can help an army win, but few can guarantee victory. Strong armor, sharp weapons, sturdy chariots, good horses, ample provisions, and large numbers of soldiers are all important to an army, yet none can ensure victory. Mastery of the movements of the stars and sun, of Yin-Yang methods such as punishment and virtue and the extraordinary and the subtle, and of the advantages offered by facing or turning away, and by the left and right—these too can aid in battle, but they cannot guarantee complete victory.

The reason an outstanding general can secure victory is often that they possess wisdom beyond prediction and grasp principles that do not follow conventional rules. These are difficult for everyone to understand and put into practice.

An army has five kinds of officers, each with distinct duties.

The military commandant selects and carefully manages officials according to their abilities, determines the right moment for action, and ensures that officers and soldiers have clearly defined duties and that weapons and armor are ready. The commandant also regulates formations, organizes squads of ten and units of one hundred, and makes clear how drums and banners are to be used to relay orders.

The military scout observes the enemy and the terrain, judges the difficulty of the roads ahead and behind, and assesses the enemy’s strength. The scout reports findings promptly and sends out people to reconnoiter and take measurements.

The officer responsible for roads and baggage trains quickly clears and maintains the army’s routes, manages its transport and supplies properly, and calculates and allocates the dimensions and materials needed to build camps.

The director of works oversees repairs to the camp and coordinates matters within the garrison, ensuring that wells, cooking stoves, and other facilities are accessible and usable.

The officer responsible for military transport and supply stores provisions properly. When the army moves camp, this officer ensures that supplies remain together and nothing is left behind, and prevents vehicles and baggage from being misused or lost.

To a general, these five kinds of officers are like the arms and legs of the body. Each person must be appointed to a suitable role according to their abilities, so that the position matches their capacity and everyone can fulfill their duties. The general assigns them their tasks and then reinforces them with orders, so that each serves to their full potential, as tigers and leopards have claws and teeth, and birds have wings. Yet all of these are only conditions that help an army win; they are not the foundation that guarantees victory.

Whether a war is won or lost first depends on whether its generals are competent and its soldiers fulfill their duties. Teach them through government orders, then repeat and clarify those commands, so the army makes full use of each member, like a tiger or leopard growing claws and fangs, or a bird growing six flight feathers. Yet these are only aids to victory; they cannot guarantee it.

At root, whether a war is won or lost depends on the conduct of government. When government is sound, the people support their rulers and the army is strong. When the people hold sway over government orders and turn away from their rulers, the army is weak. Thus, the foundations of certain victory are a ruler whose De and moral principles win the allegiance of the people throughout the realm; policies capable of meeting the realm’s urgent needs; the ability to select and appoint worthy people and thereby win the support of the virtuous; and the wisdom to assess the balance of strength.

A vast territory and large population do not prove that a state is strong. Sturdy armor and sharp weapons cannot guarantee victory. High walls and deep moats cannot ensure security. Harsh commands and numerous punishments cannot establish authority. Sound government that can preserve the state allows even a weak state to endure; government that leads to ruin will bring even a powerful state to its end.

In ancient times, the territory of Chu stretched south to the Yuan and Xiang Rivers, north beyond the Ying and Si Rivers, west to include Ba and Shu, and east as far as the lands of Tan and Huai. The Ying and Ru Rivers encircled Chu like a moat, while the Yangtze and Han Rivers guarded it like a defensive river. Denglin—a legendary vast forest near the Mian River—formed a barrier, and Fangcheng, a northern Chu stronghold near Ye County in Nanyang, extended into a line of defense. Mountains rose high into the clouds, and ravines plunged to depths beyond sight.

Chu’s terrain was difficult to penetrate, and its people were brave. They also made armor and helmets from the hides of dragons, rhinoceroses, and wild oxen, and carefully forged short spears. Chariots stood in orderly ranks at the front, repeating crossbows were placed behind them, and chariots interlocked to guard the flanks. Their attacks were swift as arrows; when they joined forces, their momentum thundered like lightning, and when they spread out, they moved as swiftly as wind and rain.

Yet Chu’s armies were ultimately defeated at Chuisha and dealt a crushing blow at Baiju. Chu had once possessed vast territory and a large population, and grown powerful enough to contend with all under Heaven. Still, King Huai, fearing Lord Mengchang to the north and constrained by Qi, abandoned his duty to protect his state and cast his lot with mighty Qin. After King Huai entered Qin, the Qin state detained him at Lantian. Chu’s armies suffered defeat after defeat, its territory was seized, and the king himself died in Qin, never to return to Chu.

The Second Emperor of Qin was Hu Hai, the First Emperor’s youngest son. As Son of Heaven, he ruled the realm, and every place within Qin’s borders that people could reach on foot or boats could navigate was organized into commanderies and counties. Yet he indulged his senses and pursued a life of extreme luxury, showing no concern for the people, who went hungry and cold and lived in hardship. He requisitioned great numbers of carts and horses to build the Epang Palace, a palace constructed by the Qin in the Epang area. He also conscripted the lüzuo, commoners who lived on the left side of the lanes, to guard the borders. The Qin intended to conscript the lüzuo, but before the levy was complete, the dynasty had already fallen. He also imposed crushing taxes, taking six tenths of the people’s property.

The people were conscripted for labor and subjected to harsh punishments. Some died on the road while hauling carts; the dead were too numerous to count at once. The people throughout the realm were as if scorched by raging fire, plunged into searing agony. The court was in turmoil, and officials and commoners neither trusted nor relied on one another.

Chen Sheng, a garrison soldier, rose in revolt at Daze Township. He raised his arm, bared his right shoulder, and declared that he would found “Great Chu.” People across the realm rose in response. The rebels had no sturdy armor or sharp weapons, no powerful crossbows or siege engines. They cut branches from wild jujube trees for spear shafts, fitted points into them to make crude spears, and sharpened bamboo and wood. Armed with shoulder poles and hoes, they faced long halberds and powerful crossbows. Yet wherever they went to attack cities and seize territory, every city surrendered.

The people of the realm scattered in alarm like startled deer and stirred in swarms like ants. The revolt rapidly spread and swept across the land for thousands of miles. Chen Sheng was of humble station, and the rebels’ weapons and equipment were crude, but one man raised the call and the realm responded. This was because resentment had built up so deeply in the hearts of the people.

When King Wu of Zhou set out to punish the tyrant Zhou of Shang, he marched eastward to face the year star (Jupiter, which the ancients used to mark the years), while the Grand Duke’s position lay in the direction of Yin. When the army reached Fan, it encountered a great flood. “Fan” was a place name, and “water” here means flooding caused by heavy rain. The army then reached Mount Gongtou, where a mountain collapse occurred. Gongtou was the name of a mountain in the Hequ area, and “fell” means that it gave way. A comet appeared, its tail pointing east, as if handing its broom handle to the people of Yin. People at the time believed that when a comet’s handle pointed east, it could be used to sweep away enemies in the west.

During the battle, the extraordinary sight of ten suns appearing in the sky was seen, while wind and rain struck the battlefield. Yet in King Wu’s army, no one was rewarded for charging recklessly into danger, and no one was punished for fleeing or retreating. Before all the swords had even been drawn, the realm was already pacified.

Thus, those skilled at defense need not confront the enemy army head-on; those skilled in warfare need not engage the enemy in a direct struggle. They understand when to forbid and when to permit, when to open and when to close. They follow the circumstances of the time and win the realm in accordance with the people’s wishes.

Those skilled at governing build up the effects of Virtue; those skilled at using military force build up their authority. When Virtue has been cultivated, the people can be put to use; when authority has been amassed, awe can be established. If the reach of civil Virtue is shallow, the power it can overcome is small. If the reach of Virtue is broad, the scope controlled by one’s authority is broad as well. The wider that scope, the stronger one’s own side and the weaker the enemy. Thus, those skilled in warfare first weaken the enemy and then engage them. They expend less than half the effort, yet achieve twice the effect.

Tang of Shang held territory only seventy li across, yet established a royal enterprise because he cultivated and illuminated Virtue. Zhi Bo possessed a thousand li of territory, yet met his downfall because he relied on military force without restraint. Thus, a state with a thousand chariots can become king through civil Virtue, while a great state with ten thousand chariots can perish if it delights in warfare.

Those who truly preserve their armies first secure victory and then go to war. They first gain the advantage through Virtue and only then send out their troops; Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou acted in this way. Defeated armies, by contrast, go to war first and only afterward try to find victory. When Virtue is equal, the larger force defeats the smaller. When strength is equal, the wiser defeat the foolish. When circumstances are equal, those with strategy and preparation can capture those who lack both.

Anyone who wages war must first deliberate and compare the two sides’ circumstances in the ancestral temple: Which ruler is more virtuous? Which commander more capable? Which people more loyal? Which state better governed? Which has greater reserves, more elite troops, sharper weapons, and more suitable equipment? Only by weighing each of these factors can one judge who will win.

Commentators explain that mou means “equal” or “compare.”

Anyone who wages war must first plan in the ancestral temple: Which ruler is more virtuous, which commander more capable, which people more loyal, which state more stable, which has greater reserves, more elite troops, sharper weapons, and more convenient equipment? Only then can one deliberate at court and determine victory or defeat a thousand miles away.

Whatever has a visible form and can be seen, all under Heaven can recognize. Whatever is written in books, people can pass on and learn. Victory based on these things relies only on outward appearances. Those skilled at using circumstances do not cling to fixed methods. What the Dao values is precisely what has no form or trace. Without form, it cannot be constrained or coerced, measured, outwitted by clever schemes, or anticipated through prior calculation.

When strategy is revealed, others can devise countermeasures. When actions leave visible traces, others can guard against their effects. When everyone can see a plan, others will be on their guard; when weapons and equipment are exposed, others will prepare defenses. Actions that turn and maneuver, postures that bend and extend—anything that can be cleverly calculated is not truly skillful. Skillful action appears and vanishes like spirits and ghosts, glimmers like starlight yet remains dark and unfathomable. Its advances, retreats, bends, and extensions leave no trace. It is like a luan spreading its wings, a qilin shaking its body, a phoenix taking flight, or a divine dragon soaring. When it sets forth, it is like a sudden autumn gale, swift as a startled dragon.

Use fresh strength to strike a weary enemy, the flourishing to overwhelm the declining, speed to overcome slowness, and fullness to confront hunger and exhaustion. This is like putting out fire with water or pouring hot broth over snow: how could it fail? Where could it not succeed? The key is to keep the mind clear and empty, the spirit focused and concealed, and one’s intentions calm and unexposed; to make plans unseen and strike where the other side does not expect.

Move and vanish without warning, so the enemy does not know where you are headed. Advance by different routes and enter through openings, so the enemy cannot tell where you will gather. Attack like thunder suddenly breaking and storms sweeping in, as if emerging from beneath the earth or descending from the sky. Come and go without a trace, beyond resistance. Swift as an arrow—who could match you? Now hidden, now revealed—who could discern your pattern? Before the enemy sees the action begin, the attack has already arrived.

Therefore, a skilled commander strikes as soon as he finds the enemy’s defenses weak, seizing the advantage and never letting an opportunity pass. He does not stop pursuing lightly, nor withdraw lightly when closing in on the enemy. He attacks while the enemy hesitates and restrains them while they move sluggishly. His assault comes as suddenly as thunder, leaving no time to cover one’s ears, and flashes like lightning, leaving no time to shield one’s eyes.

A skilled commander acts as closely as sound follows its echo and coordinates his forces as precisely as a drum answers its drumstick. The enemy has no time even to blink, raise a hand to steady himself, or draw breath. At such a moment, he cannot see the sky when he looks up or the ground when he looks down; he cannot lift his spear or draw his weapon in time. The attack strikes with the force of thunder, the advance rushes like a gale, the burning is fierce as fire, and the pressure surges like waves. When the enemy stands still, he does not know where to defend; when he moves, he cannot tell what his opponent intends.

Thus, when the drums sound and the banners wave, every enemy in their path is blocked and halted, scattered and broken. Who in all the world would dare to stand proudly and face them? Therefore, the side that takes the initiative and presses the enemy wins; the side that waits for the enemy to press it loses. Whoever becomes the target of an attack will perish. “Shao” refers to the side under attack.

An army is firmly grounded when it is quiet and composed; it has authority when its purpose is unified; it has courage when it acts decisively. Doubt leads to retreat and defeat, while scattered strength leads to decline. Therefore, one who can divide the enemy’s forces and shake their resolve can prevail even with very few troops. If he cannot do so, even a force several times larger may prove insufficient.

Although King Zhou of Shang commanded an army of a million, its members were of divided minds. King Wu of Zhou had only three thousand soldiers, yet they were all of one mind. A thousand people united in purpose can exert the strength of a thousand; ten thousand people with conflicting aims cannot bring even one person’s strength to bear.

Generals, soldiers, officials, and people must coordinate in movement and stillness like parts of a single body. Only then can they face the enemy and fight together. Plans should therefore be settled before action begins, and decisions made clear before troops are sent out. Generals must not devise wavering plans, and soldiers must not harbor divided intentions. Their movements should show no slackness, their words should not be empty, and they should not use the enemy’s situation as a pretext for testing the waters. They must respond to the enemy with alertness and act with speed.

A commander regards the people as his own body, while the people regard the commander as their heart. When the heart is resolute, the limbs will face the blades and fight; when the heart is fearful and doubtful, the limbs will shrink back and flee. When the mind is divided, the body’s movements lose coordination; when the commander’s purpose is not wholehearted, the soldiers will not be brave.

Thus, the soldiers of an excellent commander are like a tiger’s teeth, a rhinoceros’s horn, a bird’s feathers, and the legs of the “qian,” a small many-legged insect: they can advance, lift, bite, and push against obstacles. They work together without injuring one another; though numerous, they do not hinder one another. This is because they are driven by a single purpose.

Therefore, when the people sincerely obey orders, even a small force has nothing to fear. When they do not obey, even a large force is as weak as a small one. If those below are not close to those above, their minds will not heed their direction. If soldiers do not respect and fear their commander, punishment alone cannot make them fight.

When the defense is secure, an attack is certain to succeed. Often these outcomes are clear before the two sides even meet in battle and their weapons clash; the decisive factors that determine victory, defeat, survival, and ruin have already emerged.

There are three kinds of advantage in warfare and two kinds of strategic authority: the advantage of morale, the advantage of terrain, and the advantage of exploiting circumstances; and the authority of foresight and the authority of command. When a general is full of courage and holds the enemy in contempt, the soldiers are bold and eager to fight, and morale runs high throughout the three armies, a million troops aspire to the heights, their momentum swift as the wind and their clamor like thunder. Their courage builds and their might overwhelms the enemy. This is called the “advantage of morale.”

The roads are narrow, the crossings and passes are steep and treacherous, and mountains and perilous barriers wind like dragons and snakes. The terrain rises and falls in twists and turns, like an overturned dipper or a winding sheep’s intestine. If bamboo shoot-shaped fish traps are set in dangerous places, terrain that is easy to enter but hard to leave can also be used for defense. If a single person can hold a pass so that a thousand dare not cross, this is called the “advantage of terrain.”

Attack when the enemy is exhausted, drowsy, or disordered, or when they are suffering from hunger, thirst, cold, or heat. When they are tottering on the verge of collapse, press them hard and drive them back. This is called “exploiting circumstances.”

Skillful use of spies and counterintelligence, careful planning, and the placement of concealed ambushes can leave the enemy unable to predict our actions or prepare against them. This is called the “authority of foresight.” Here, “authority” means adapting strategy flexibly to changing circumstances.

Put the ranks in order, selecting the soldiers in the front lines and coordinating the troops as they advance and retreat. Ensure that the basic units of five and ten work together, that those in front and behind do not trample one another, and that those on the left and right do not obstruct one another. In this way, fewer of our soldiers are struck by the enemy’s weapons, while more of the enemy are wounded. This is called the “authority of command”: arranging the army well and directing its operations skillfully.

Once these conditions for victory become evident, the officers and soldiers can devote themselves to the fight. Choose the best people and assign them to appropriate roles, so that officials at every level are placed where they belong. Make plans, decide firmly, and understand clearly the stakes of life and death, gain and loss; then the whole army will be inspired and invigorated. In an attack, there may be no need to wait for battering rams or cloud ladders—siege engines used to scale city walls—before a city can be taken. In battle, there may be no need to wait for weapons to clash before the enemy is routed. This is because the certainty of victory in attack is already clear.

Therefore, do not engage lightly unless victory is assured, and do not launch an attack unless you are confident you can achieve your objective. Wait until victory is settled before beginning the battle, and until the moment is right before taking action. Then the army can be assembled without being needlessly dispersed, and it can set out without returning empty-handed. Whenever it moves, its force will resound through heaven and earth, as though shaking Mount Tai and stirring the four seas; even ghosts and spirits seem to be displaced, and birds and beasts startled. At such a point, no enemy will come forward to fight on the battlefield, and the enemy state will lose the ability to defend its cities.

Meet agitation with stillness, and disorder with order. Without revealing its own form, one can control things that do reveal theirs; without deliberate, reckless action, one can deal with change. Even if one cannot reach this level, one can at least make it unnecessary to station soldiers in the countryside, leave enemy forces no way to come and fight, and spare the state from having to rely on defending its walls for survival.

Meet agitation with stillness, and disorder with order. Without revealing its own form, one can control things that do reveal theirs; without deliberate, reckless action, one can deal with change. Even if one cannot defeat the enemy, one can keep the enemy from finding a way to defeat oneself. When the enemy acts first, he reveals his form. If he is agitated while we remain still, his strength is spent. Once the enemy’s form is exposed, the outcome can be controlled; once his strength is exhausted, our authority can be established. Observe the enemy’s movements and respond to change as it unfolds. Discern his deviations and his integrity, and use this to grasp his situation. Lure him with what he desires and keep him running until he is weary. As soon as he shows an opening, close it at once. When his capacity for change is spent, bring him under control; when his strength is exhausted, bring him to stillness.

If the enemy grows still again, we can prevail through the unexpected. If he does not respond, let him exhaust his strength on his own. This means that we fully arrange our forces and wait for the enemy. If the enemy moves and responds, his intentions become clear. We should keep strength in reserve, leaving the enemy at a disadvantage, and then engage him. Whatever the enemy builds up, he must also lose elsewhere. If his main force shifts to the left, the right will be left weak. When the enemy breaks and flees, we can pursue him, taking advantage of the moment. If the enemy is pressed but does not move, this is called “Yan Chi” (sluggish stagnation). Then attack with the speed of thunder, cut down the enemy like grass and trees, and strike with the blaze of fire and lightning. Move so swiftly that people cannot take a step and chariots cannot turn their wheels. Let the army stand firm like trees, and let the crossbow bolts strike with the force of a ram’s horns. However numerous the enemy may be, he will not dare to resist.

Whatever displays a form can be overcome; whatever leaves traces can be countered. Therefore, the sage hides his form in the formless and lets his spirit roam in emptiness and stillness. Wind and rain can be blocked, but cold and heat cannot be opened or closed at will, because they have no form. Only what is formless can glide through the subtle and mysterious, pierce metal and stone, reach the farthest distances, take refuge above the Nine Heavens, and settle beneath the Yellow Lu, deep underground.

A general skilled in warfare attacks when the enemy is in disarray and avoids attacking troops whose formations are orderly. He does not launch a surprise assault against an imposing formation, nor attack an army with firmly arranged banners and tightly ordered ranks. When facing such an enemy, he first observes the situation and uses strategy to hold his ground. Once the enemy shows signs of inevitable defeat, he follows the moment and brings it under control. An enemy that clings rigidly to fixed formations and rules will expose its weaknesses as soon as it acts. By meeting strength with apparent weakness, we can capture and subdue the enemy.

If tigers and leopards stay still, they will not fall into traps; if elk and deer stay still, they will not be caught in nets; if birds stay still, they will not fly into snares; if fish and turtles stay still, they will not be caught on hooks. There is nothing in the world that is not subdued through movement. Thus the sage prizes stillness and composure: with calm, one can respond to agitation; by acting later, one can respond to those who move first; careful planning can overcome negligence; and broad strength can capture an opponent with weaknesses.

A skilled general leading soldiers into battle brings them to act with one mind and united strength. The brave cannot rush ahead on their own, and the timid cannot retreat on their own. When still, the army is as steadfast as a mountain; when it attacks, it is as swift and fierce as wind and rain. Wherever it advances, its targets are broken, and the enemy is routed. The whole army moves as one, making it difficult for the enemy to resist. In this way, many enemies are killed, while few of our own soldiers need to engage in close combat.

Striking with five fingers in turn is less forceful than clenching the hand and striking all at once. Ten thousand men attacking in succession are less effective than a hundred charging together. Tigers and leopards are swift, and bears are strong, yet people can eat their meat and use their skins as mats. This is because these fierce animals cannot act in unison or coordinate their strength. Water naturally overcomes fire, but when the Zhanghua Terrace, the high platform of the state of Chu, caught fire, a single ladle of water could do nothing to extinguish it. Even drawing all the water from a well and draining a pond would have been useless. But if many jars, basins, and other vessels were brought to pour water on the flames together, the fire could quickly be put out. People are not as unevenly matched in strength as water and fire, yet the idea that a few can resist a multitude is clearly doomed to fail.

Some military strategists say that a few can contend with many. This applies to commanding an army, not to fighting on the battlefield. A general may have many soldiers, but if he commands poorly and the troops are divided in spirit, the force he can actually deploy is small. A general with few soldiers, however, can bring the strength of the whole army to bear if he unites them in cooperation. As for the claim that each person can fully develop his abilities and exert all his strength, thereby allowing a few to defeat a multitude, no genuine example from history has ever proved it.

Nothing surpasses Heaven in dignity, Earth in advantage, the moment in importance for action, or human beings in their usefulness for applying force. These four are the basic conditions for conducting war. Yet they can take effect only when used in accordance with the Dao (the Way). An advantageous position can overcome favorable timing; skillful action can overcome an advantageous position; and strategic circumstances can overcome human strength. Thus, relying solely on favorable timing may lead to misjudgment; relying solely on terrain may leave one constrained by it; relying solely on the moment may bring pressure; and relying solely on human strength may lead one astray.

Benevolence, courage, trustworthiness, and integrity are all fine human qualities. Yet the courageous may be lured into a trap, the benevolent may be deprived of what they love, the trustworthy may be deceived, and the upright may be exploited. A commander who reveals even one of these weaknesses may be captured by the enemy. This shows that action can be constrained by others, and that relying on human strength alone can easily lead one astray.

Benevolence, courage, trustworthiness, and integrity are virtues, but the courageous may be lured into a trap, the benevolent may be deprived of what they love, the trustworthy may be deceived, and the upright may be exploited. A commander who reveals even one of these weaknesses may be captured by the enemy. It is therefore clear that victory in war should be gained through sound reasoning and strategy, rather than by relying on a general’s personal virtues.

A musk deer can be caught in a snare: however strong it may be, it cannot use that strength to fight human beings—just like an army without strategy. Fish and turtles can be caught in nets: though they are numerous, they scatter easily and are hard to bring together—just like an army lacking organization. A great swan, a large bird of its kind, can be brought down with a corded arrow: though it flies high, it is unguarded—just like an army that reaches for lofty aims but takes no precautions. Only what has no form or trace cannot be countered. Thus the sage hides where no one can detect him, so that no one can glimpse his inner workings; he moves through what has no form, and therefore his...