《南華真經循本》Vol. 29

This passage comes from Nanhua Zhenjing Xunben and recounts a fictional encounter where Confucius attempts to persuade the notorious robber Zhi to reform, only to face fierce rebuttal.

Confucius was close friends with Liu Xiaji (also known as Liu Xiahui). Liu Xiaji had a younger brother named Robber Zhi, who commanded a band of nine thousand followers, wreaking havoc across the land—raiding feudal lords, breaking into homes, and seizing livestock and women from commoners. He was insatiably greedy, disregarding his parents and siblings, and neglecting ancestral sacrifices. Wherever he went, people in large states barricaded their city gates, while those in smaller states took refuge in fortresses, suffering greatly under his tyranny.

Confucius said to Liu Xiaji: "A father should be able to discipline his son, and an elder brother should guide his younger brother. If you, as an elder brother, cannot restrain your sibling, what value remains in familial bonds? You are a man of talent in this age, yet you have a brother who plagues the world—this is truly shameful. Let me go and admonish him."

Liu Xiaji dissuaded him: "You speak rightly, but if a son refuses his father’s words and a younger brother rejects his elder’s guidance, what use is eloquence? Moreover, Robber Zhi’s mind surges like a fountain, his thoughts shift like a gale. His martial prowess can withstand enemies, and his rhetoric suffices to justify his wrongs. Flatter him, and he is pleased; oppose him, and he rages, quick to hurl insults. You’d best not go."

Ignoring the warning, Confucius had Yan Hui drive his carriage and Zigong accompany him to meet Robber Zhi. At the time, Zhi was encamped at the southern foothills of Mount Tai, resting his troops and feasting on minced human livers. Confucius stepped down and approached, announcing to the messenger: "I am Kong Qiu of Lu, having long admired the general’s noble principles, and have come to pay my respects."

When the messenger relayed this, Robber Zhi flew into a rage—his eyes blazing like stars, his hair bristling so violently it lifted his cap—and roared: "Isn’t this that hypocrite Kong Qiu from Lu, with his honeyed words and artful flattery? Tell him: You weave lies, invoking the names of Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou, wearing a cap like tree branches and a belt of dead oxhide, spouting nonsense. You don’t till the fields yet demand food, don’t weave cloth yet expect fine robes..." (The original text continues.)

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, depicting a dialogue between Confucius and the notorious robber Zhi:

While Robber Zhi was eating, Confucius came to visit. Zhi's subordinate announced: "That man who loves to wag his tongue, stir up trouble, delude the rulers of states, and prevent scholars from returning to their true nature—who hypocritically promotes filial piety and fraternal duty to seek wealth and status—has arrived! His crimes are too grave!" Hearing this, Robber Zhi flew into a rage, saying Confucius should leave immediately or he'd have his liver for supper.

Confucius requested another audience, humbly stating his wish to meet Zhi. When admitted, Confucius advanced cautiously with quick, small steps, retreated from the mat, and bowed respectfully. But Robber Zhi sprawled his legs, gripped his sword, and glared fiercely, roaring like a tiger cub: "Come here, Kong Qiu! If your words please me, you live; if they displease me, you die!"

Confucius replied: "I've heard there are three virtues under heaven: To be born tall and handsome, loved by all regardless of age or status—this is supreme virtue (De). To possess wisdom encompassing heaven and earth, discerning all things—this is middling virtue. To be courageous and decisive, capable of leading multitudes—this is lesser virtue. Having just one qualifies one to be king. But you, General, possess all three: Standing eight feet two inches tall, with radiant features, ruby lips and pearly teeth, a voice like thunder—yet you're called 'Robber Zhi.' I'm truly ashamed on your behalf."

Confucius proposed: "If you'll heed me, I'll persuade various states to build you a city spanning hundreds of miles, establish a fief of hundreds of thousands of households, honor you as a feudal lord, so you may disband your troops, reunite with brothers, and sacrifice to ancestors. This would be the act of a sage, fulfilling the world's desires."

Robber Zhi grew even angrier: "Come here, Kong Qiu! Those who can be tempted by profit or persuaded by words are all ignorant commoners. My good looks are my parents' gift—I know this without your flattery. Moreover, I know those who fawn to your face will slander you behind your back. You tempt me with cities and subjects, thinking to domesticate me like some common man? What city could surpass the world itself? Yao and Shun possessed all under heaven, yet their descendants had no land to stand on. Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou were Son of Heaven, yet their lines were extinguished. Doesn't this prove great profit brings great harm?"

Through Robber Zhi's words, this dialogue critiques Confucian ideals of benevolence, righteousness, and worldly success, embodying the Zhuangzi school's rejection of conventional values. Though a robber, Zhi demonstrates profound insight into hypocritical morality, his arguments overturning traditional notions of good and evil.

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, where the legendary bandit Robber Zhi delivers a scathing critique of Confucian veneration of sage-kings and ritual propriety. Robber Zhi rebukes Confucius:

The King Wu of Zhou you revere may have become the Son of Heaven, but his descendants were exterminated—wasn't this because his greed for profit was too great? I've heard that in ancient times when beasts outnumbered humans, people lived in tree nests to avoid predators, gathering acorns by day and sleeping in trees at night—this was called the era of the "Nest Builder." Then humans didn't know clothing—piling firewood in summer and burning it for warmth in winter—called the era of "Knowing Life." During Shennong's time, people slept peacefully and awoke content, knowing only their mothers, not fathers, living alongside deer, tilling fields for food, weaving cloth for clothing, without thoughts of harming one another—this was the highest expression of De (Virtue).

But by the Yellow Emperor's era, De had already declined. The Yellow Emperor fought Chiyou at Zhuolu until blood flowed for miles; Yao and Shun established bureaucracies; Tang of Shang exiled his ruler; King Wu of Zhou murdered King Zhou. Since then, the strong have bullied the weak, the many have oppressed the few. From Tang and King Wu onward, all have been troublemakers disturbing the world. Now you promote the ways of Kings Wen and Wu, controlling public discourse to indoctrinate posterity, wearing broad robes and sashes while preaching ren (benevolence) and yi (righteousness)—yet in truth you deceive feudal lords with hypocritical words and deeds, merely seeking wealth and status. Who in the world is a greater robber than you?

With sweet words you persuaded Zilu to follow you, making him remove his warrior's cap and unbuckle his sword to receive your teaching. The world says Confucius can stop violence—but what happened? When Zilu tried to kill the ruler of Wei, he failed and was minced into paste hanging on Wei's eastern gate—this is your educational failure. You call yourself a sage, yet were expelled from Lu, had your footprints erased in Wei, found no refuge in Qi, and were besieged between Chen and Cai—the whole world rejects you. Your disciple Zilu became minced meat—you can't preserve yourself above, nor guide others below. What value has your doctrine?

The world reveres none more than the Yellow Emperor, yet even he couldn't maintain De during the Zhuolu battles; Yao showed no kindness to his son, Shun no filial piety to his parents; Yu became half-paralyzed; Tang exiled his lord; King Wu attacked King Zhou; King Wen was imprisoned at Youli. These six so-called sages, examined closely, were all deluded by profit, forcibly violating natural feelings—their conduct was truly shameful. The world's so-called worthy men... [the critique continues]

Bo Yi and Shu Qi, those two virtuous scholars, renounced their positions as rulers of the Guzhu State and eventually starved to death on Mount Shouyang, their bones left unburied. Bao Jiao (a recluse of the Spring and Autumn period) deliberately cultivated his conduct to criticize the vulgar world, only to die clinging to a tree. Shentu Di (a remonstrating minister of the Shang dynasty), whose advice was rejected, carried a stone and drowned himself in a river, his body devoured by fish and turtles. Jie Zitui (a loyal minister of Jin), in his utmost devotion, cut flesh from his own thigh to feed Duke Wen of Jin. Later, when the duke betrayed him, Zitui left in anger and perished in flames while embracing a tree. Wei Sheng (a man of unwavering trust) waited under a bridge for a woman who never came. Even as the floodwaters rose, he refused to leave, clinging to the bridge pillar until he drowned.

The actions of these six individuals are no different from those of a dog killed and left exposed, a pig drowned in a river, or a beggar holding a gourd—all chasing empty fame, disregarding life, neglecting its essence, and failing to cherish their allotted years. What the world calls loyal ministers are none other than Prince Bi Gan (uncle of King Zhou of Shang) and Wu Zixu (minister of Wu). Zixu was drowned in the river, Bi Gan had his heart torn out—both hailed as paragons of loyalty, yet ultimately became objects of ridicule. Judging by these examples, even Zixu and Bi Gan are hardly worth praising.

The principles you (Confucius) use to persuade me—if they concern the affairs of ghosts and spirits, I do not understand them; if they pertain to human matters, they amount to nothing more than what I already know. Now let me tell you about human nature: the eyes desire beautiful sights, the ears crave music, the mouth longs for delicious flavors, and the heart seeks fulfillment. The longest human life barely reaches a hundred years, the average eighty, the shortest sixty. Subtract the time spent on illness, mourning, and sorrow, and the days of genuine laughter in a month number no more than four or five. Heaven and earth endure eternally, while human life is fleeting. To entrust this limited existence to the boundless cosmos is as swift as a steed darting past a crack. Those who cannot bring joy to their hearts and nurture their allotted years are no followers of the great Dao (the Way). What you preach is precisely what I reject. Be gone, and speak no more! Your doctrines are wild, extreme, hypocritical, and deceitful—incapable of preserving the true nature of humanity, utterly unworthy of discussion!

Confucius, hearing this, repeatedly bowed and hurried out the door. Mounting his carriage, he fumbled with the reins three times, his gaze vacant as if blind, his face ashen like death. Leaning against the chariot rail, he hung his head, barely able to catch his breath. Upon returning to the eastern gate of Lu, he happened to meet Liu Xiaji (also known as Liu Xiahui). Liu Xiaji remarked, "It’s been many days since we last met. Judging by the travel-worn state of your carriage and horses, could it be you’ve gone to see Robber Zhi?"

Confucius looked up to heaven and sighed, saying: "Liu Xiaji (Liu Xiahui), has the robber Zhi acted contrary to your expectations?" Liu Xiaji replied: "Indeed he has." Confucius said: "This is like cauterizing oneself with moxa when not ill. I went to stroke the tiger's head and tug its whiskers—I nearly ended up in the tiger's jaws!"

Zizhang asked Man Goude: "Why not cultivate virtue (De)? Without virtue, one gains no trust; without trust, one receives no appointment; without appointment, one attains no profit. Thus, from the perspective of fame and profit, humaneness and righteousness are indeed necessary. But if we set aside fame and profit and examine our own hearts, can a scholar's virtue really go uncultivated for even a single day?" Man Goude replied: "The shameless often grow rich; those skilled at gaining trust often rise to prominence. Those who achieve great fame and fortune have nearly all done so through shamelessness and gaining trust. Thus, from the perspective of fame and profit, gaining trust is indeed necessary. But if we set aside fame and profit and examine our own hearts, should a scholar's virtue then follow its natural course?"

Zizhang said: "In ancient times, Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang were honored as Sons of Heaven, possessing the wealth of the world. Yet if you told a servant, 'Your conduct resembles Jie or Zhou,' they would feel ashamed and resentful, for these were despised even by petty men. Confucius and Mo Di, though impoverished and obscure, would—if a prime minister were told, 'Your virtue resembles Confucius or Mo Di'—inspire solemn reverence and humble denials, for these were revered by scholars. Thus, being honored as Son of Heaven does not necessarily mean nobility, nor does poverty as a commoner necessarily mean baseness. The distinction between noble and base lies in the quality of one's conduct."

Man Goude retorted: "Petty thieves get caught, while great robbers become feudal lords—and these lords maintain so-called 'righteous men' in their courts. Duke Huan of Qi, Xiaobai, murdered his elder brother and took his sister-in-law, yet Guan Zhong became his minister. Tian Chengzi Chang assassinated his ruler and usurped the state, yet Confucius accepted his money. To condemn with words but submit in action—is this not contradiction? Thus, an ancient text says: 'What is evil? What is good? The successful become leaders; the failures become outcasts.'"

Zizhang pressed further: "Without cultivating virtue, kin become estranged, nobility and baseness lose distinction, and the order between elder and younger collapses. How then can the Five Relationships and Six Positions (ethical principles) be maintained?" Man Goude countered with examples: "Yao killed his eldest son; Shun exiled his younger brother—does this show proper family relations? Tang of Shang exiled Jie; King Wu of Zhou executed Zhou—does this show proper distinction between noble and base? Wang Ji seized the succession; the Duke of Zhou killed his elder brother—does this show proper order between elder and younger? The Confucians preach hypocritical words; the Mohists advocate universal love—can the Five Relationships and Six Positions truly be clearly distinguished?"

This passage examines the nature of fame and wealth and their impact on human nature. It points out that the pursuit of these worldly concerns often contradicts the principles of nature and the true essence of the Dao (the Way). Whether it's petty men dying for wealth or noble men perishing for reputation, though their manifestations differ, both fundamentally represent a loss of innate nature and a departure from the Heavenly Dao (the Way of Heaven).

The text cites tragic historical examples: Bi Gan having his heart torn out and Wu Zixu having his eyes gouged—these were calamities brought by excessive pursuit of loyalty; Zhi Gong reporting his own father and Wei Sheng drowning to keep a promise—these were disasters caused by blind adherence to trustworthiness; Bao Shuya swearing never to serve in office and Shen Sheng refusing to defend himself—these were harms resulting from extreme integrity; Confucius failing to see his mother before her death and Kuang Zhang avoiding his father—these were faults arising from rigid moralism. These examples demonstrate how excessive attachment to moral standards can ironically bring about misfortune.

In the dialogue between Wuzu (Never Enough) and Zhihe (Know Harmony), Wuzu argues that seeking wealth and status is natural human behavior that brings comfort and pleasure. Zhihe counters by pointing out that those who drift with the current, abandoning what is most precious in life, remain far from the true path of peace and joy. True wisdom understands that even being honored as the Son of Heaven or possessing the world's riches cannot prevent suffering if one fails to comprehend the deeper meaning behind actions.

The core teaching of this passage is: excessive pursuit of external fame, wealth, and moral standards causes people to lose their fundamental nature. True wisdom lies in following the natural Dao (the Way), maintaining inner tranquility, and remaining unbound by worldly values.

This passage explores the relationship between human desires and moral cultivation. By contrasting two approaches to life, it reveals the dangers of pursuing external things and the wisdom of contentment.

Those who rely on others' talents to display their own power may assume an air of authority without holding any official position. Sensory pleasures, power, and status—these are things humans naturally crave and indulge in without needing instruction. This stems from human nature, something no one in the world can entirely avoid.

Truly wise individuals act with consideration for the people's needs and do not violate the natural order (Dao). They are content and therefore do not contend; they desire nothing and thus are free from greed. Even when enjoying wealth and honor, they remain humble, possessing the world without flaunting their riches. Sage-kings like Yao and Shun practiced benevolent governance, while virtuous hermits like Shan Juan and Xu You declined imperial thrones—not for fame, but because they understood how to weigh gains and losses, avoiding anything that might harm their true nature.

In contrast, the wealthy drown themselves daily in music and wine, neglecting proper duties while their minds grow disordered. Chasing riches and power is like climbing a mountain with a heavy load—utterly exhausting. Those insatiable yet unable to stop eventually sink into anxiety and fear, guarding against thieves within their households while dreading enemies outside. They hoard wealth they cannot use, their hearts filled with worry even as they keep grasping for more—this is truly profound suffering.

The text observes: Moderation brings blessings, excess invites disaster—this holds true for all things, especially wealth. Those who exhaust themselves chasing riches and status are like people who, though deafened, refuse to step away, sinking ever deeper into their obsession. This is indeed shameful and lamentable.

This passage addresses six of the most severe calamities. When one's inner being is consumed by terror, manifesting in trembling apprehension—so much so that even walking alone becomes impossible—this signifies being utterly dominated by fear. These six conditions represent the gravest perils in the world, yet people often forget them entirely, failing to examine them carefully. By the time disaster strikes, when one would willingly sacrifice all possessions—even life itself—just to return to former days of peace and safety, it is already impossible.

From the perspective of reputation, these afflictions remain invisible; measured by material gain, they leave no discernible trace. Yet people still exhaust their minds and harm their bodies in pursuit of these very things—is this not the height of delusion?

(Note: The "six conditions" refer to previously unquoted calamities, including excessive sensory indulgence and vain pursuit of fame. This passage emphasizes how external misfortunes stem from inner attachments, warning against the blinding nature of illusory desires.)