《亢倉子》

Kang Cangzi (legendary disciple of Laozi) dwelled at the foot of Mount Yu for three years, during which the region enjoyed favorable weather and abundant harvests. The villagers whispered among themselves: "At first we thought him strange, but now we see his subtle influence brings lasting benefits—could this be a sage? Should we not honor him as a deity?"

Hearing this, Kang Cangzi grew visibly displeased. When his disciple Yan Zhuo inquired, he quoted Laozi in response: "Those who embody the Dao dwell in obscurity, leaving people undisturbed in their natural simplicity. Yet these villagers wish to sacrifice to me—this violates the Way's spontaneity." Yan Zhuo countered: "Just as shallow waters cannot harbor great fish nor small hills conceal mighty beasts, each has its proper dwelling. Honoring worthiness has been a virtue since Yao and Shun's golden age—why reject it here?"

Kang Cangzi responded with deeper metaphors: "The giant beast that pulls carts is trapped when leaving its mountain forest; the ship-swallowing fish becomes ants' prey when stranded. Birds nest high, fish dwell deep—how much more should Dao cultivators remain hidden. I tell you: the world's disorder began when Yao and Shun elevated the appearance of virtue. This pretense will fester for millennia, until men devour each other."

Before he finished, Nanrong Zhuchu (another seeker) abruptly rose pale-faced: "I grow old—how should I practice?" Kang Cangzi advised: "Preserve your innate nature, diminish calculations—perhaps you'll awaken. But my cultivation remains shallow. Seek my teacher Laozi in the south."

The passage concludes with its essence: As clear water muddies when stirred with soil, humanity's natural longevity becomes disturbed by external things. What we call nurturing life is simply safeguarding this primordial nature. (Note: "Sacrificial rites to soil deities" refers to ancient effigy worship traditions; "ritual vessels" are ceremonial implements; "preserving form and embracing life" is a Daoist term for cultivating one's essential nature.)

Many confused people today often damage their innate nature in pursuit of material pleasures, failing to distinguish what truly matters. Therefore, when facing sensory delights, the sage accepts what benefits their essential nature and rejects what harms it—this is the method to preserve one's true nature. Just as when ten thousand archers shoot at a single target, the target cannot avoid being hit; when all things in their multiplicity injure life, no life escapes unharmed. Thus, the sage governs all things by allowing them to preserve their heavenly endowed nature. When innate nature remains whole, the spirit remains whole. Those with whole spirit comprehend without thinking, act appropriately without planning; their luminous spirit shines universally, their will merges with the cosmos, and their virtue matches heaven and earth. Such people, whether emperors or commoners, neither grow arrogant in high position nor despondent in lowly station—these are those who have attained the Dao.

When the heart-mind is balanced and upright, undisturbed by external temptations, maintaining purity ensures endurance, maintaining clarity ensures longevity, and reaching emptiness allows union with the Dao. When Qin Yi died, Kangcangzi wept for him. A servant asked, "All under heaven must die—why does the master weep?" Kangcangzi replied, "When all under heaven weep, how can I not weep?" The servant continued, "Those who weep must feel sorrow, yet the master feels none." Kangcangzi answered, "Since no one in all the world shares my joy, from where would sorrow arise?"

He further explained: Just as a cicada shedding its shell is called water, water evaporating is called qi, qi dissipating is called emptiness—and emptiness manifests the Dao. Emptiness is the substance of the Dao, stillness its foundation, principle its guiding thread, and awareness its expression. The Dao preserves spirit, De (Virtue) expands capacity, ritual regulates form, and objects nourish the body. Those who love white things consider black defiled; those who love black things consider white defiled—how can I know what truly counts as purity in this world? Thus I remain unattached to notions of cleanliness. Those with blurred vision see yellow as red and blue as black; what I now call clearly black and white might appear red and yellow to sharp eyes—how can I know true colors under heaven? Thus I do not avoid any hue. Those obsessed with wealth see no value in other things; those infatuated with fine steeds see no merit elsewhere; those engrossed in books find nothing else worthwhile—how can I know what truly deserves love or aversion in this world? Therefore, I perceive nothing worth clinging to. Nothing can disturb my authentic essence.

Chen Huaijun sent his minister Liu on a diplomatic mission to the State of Lu. Privately, Shusun Qing asked, "In our state we have a sage—do you know of him?" The Chen minister countered, "What makes you consider him a sage?" Shusun Qing replied, "He can perceive things without conscious thought, directly through bodily awareness." The Chen minister responded, "Our small state also has a sage, but different from what you describe—Kangcangzi (a disciple of Laozi) has truly inherited Lao Dan's (Laozi's) teachings. He can see with his ears and hear with his eyes."

When Duke Ding of Lu heard this, he was astonished. He sent the Shusun clan to return the visit and invite Kangcangzi, receiving him with the highest ministerial honors. Kangcangzi stayed in secondary quarters, and the Duke humbly sought his counsel. Kangcangzi explained: "My ability isn't about abandoning eyes and ears—that's an exaggeration in the telling. The truth is this: my body unites with my mind, my mind unites with Qi (vital energy), my Qi unites with Shen (spirit), and my Shen unites with emptiness. Even the subtlest existence or faintest sound, whether from the eight distant directions or right before me—if it touches me, I perceive it. Yet this is merely the natural response of the seven orifices and four limbs, the self-awareness of the five viscera and six bowels."

Chapter Two of "Applying the Dao" states: Neither heaven and earth nor human hearts can be relied upon—only the Dao is trustworthy. Wise rulers and outstanding individuals all understand this truth. Historically, tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang believed they held the Mandate of Heaven, yet perished by defying the Dao. Lazy farmers assume land naturally yields grain, but neglecting the agricultural seasons brings no harvest. The Duke of Qi naively trusted in innate human goodness without understanding statecraft, leading to usurpation by treacherous ministers. Ordinary people who fail to cultivate the Dao, indulging selfish desires, invite calamity and illness, shortening their lifespans—all harms born of deluded minds. Thus it is said: Only by following the Dao can heaven and earth endure, and only then may the people rely on enlightened rulers.

This passage expounds on the behavioral principles appropriate for individuals of different social roles, along with wisdom for navigating human affairs.

Those who govern a nation yet fail to ensure smooth administration lack true capability. One who genuinely comprehends the Dao (the Way) does not deliberately display their talents. When blessings nourish all things and merits return to emptiness, then the spirit achieves harmony, endeavors flourish, and good fortune endures. The ability to discern right from wrong is called "wisdom," while understanding without contention is called "Dao."

The text then outlines five distinct ways of living according to one's station:

The farmer's way begins at cockcrow, toiling under the sun's heat until sweat-soaked and exhausted, resting only late at night. The merchant's way involves meticulous calculation, exhausting mental energy in pursuit of profit. The cultivator's way regulates breath and nurtures spirit (shen), reducing thoughts to transcend worldly concerns, practicing qi absorption to seek immortality. The minister's way demands single-minded devotion to governance, forgetting sleep and meals in service to the ruler. The sovereign's way requires purity of heart and few desires, examining those nearby to select the virtuous, ensuring the people's peaceful livelihood.

When each person follows their proper way without overstepping boundaries, the world achieves harmony. Preserving sinews and bones maintains bodily health, moderating passions keeps the spirit radiant, and careful speech preserves blessings. One who masters these three becomes a pure and upright sage.

When virtue (de) aligns with heaven, even ghosts and spirits offer assistance; with profound integrity, gentlemen naturally draw near; when ritual propriety is complete, petty men submit. The wise understand this intuitively, while the dull follow instinctively. Things often appear similar yet prove opposite: auspicious beginnings may end disastrously, seemingly amiable talents may prove unreliable, and those commanding respect might lack moral substance. Excessive reverence creates distance, while excessive familiarity breeds disrespect. Deep kindness begets resentment, while abundant love invites hatred. Some things value speed, others slowness; some prize directness, others subtlety. The patterns of all phenomena are exquisitely subtle—this knowledge is indispensable.

When the wise encounter adversity, stillness brings clarity; in poverty, willpower breaks through; when prominent, words command respect; in wealth, the body moves freely—such is nature's law. Those sharing aspirations grow close, while competitors foster jealousy; those in similar circumstances sympathize, while rivals in interest grow suspicious; fellow sufferers comfort each other, while equals in strength envy one another—such is human nature.

The truly virtuous overflow with talent yet remain humble; in poverty they never fawn, in hardship feel no shame, and in prosperity maintain reverence and diligence. These constitute the fundamental principles for governance and worldly conduct.

This passage from Master Kangcang primarily discusses principles of governance and the resonance between heaven and humanity. We can understand it through several key aspects:

Though humans cannot directly comprehend the heavenly Dao (the Way), they may perceive it by observing the cycles of seasons and the movements of sun, moon, and stars. When these natural patterns function properly, all living beings thrive in peace. Similarly, while ministers cannot directly discern a ruler's intentions, they may understand them by examining the systems of rewards/punishments and distribution of ranks and emoluments. When these institutions are properly implemented, people of all relations—whether close or distant, worthy or unworthy—can fully realize their potential.

Sincerity forms the foundation of governance. When a ruler's integrity is perfected, the realm remains stable; when it is lost, the realm faces peril. If the people labor exhaustively yet their resources are depleted, contentious minds will arise, and mutual trust will collapse. This breakdown of trust originates from inequitable governance, which stems from dereliction of duty by officials, which in turn arises from inconsistent application of punishments and rewards—ultimately traceable to the ruler's lack of diligence and discernment. Should the ruler become diligent and discerning, standards for rewards and punishments would unify, officials would uphold public duty, governance would flow smoothly, each person would find their proper place, and natural mutual trust would emerge.

Master Kangcang (a Daoist recluse) dwelt for five years in Xirang when King Ling of Zhou dispatched Duke Ji with gifts of jade and silk to seek his counsel: "My virtue (De) is shallow yet I occupy the highest position. Now floods and droughts plague us—how should a ruler dispel such calamities?" Master Kangcang replied: Floods signify excessive yin energy, which in governance corresponds to overly harsh punishments, and in human affairs reflects excessive selfishness. Droughts signify excessive yang energy, which in governance corresponds to excessive virtue-displays, and in human affairs reflects arrogance. When Chu faced such disasters, the Son of Heaven should rectify punishments and cultivate virtue (De), while officials should eliminate selfishness and restrain pride—thus calamities would naturally dissolve and blessings arrive.

Zheng possessed a treasure called the "Fenggui Rong Bow," later lost simultaneously with Jing. Jing demanded its return, threatening war against Zheng otherwise. The ruler of Zheng grew anxious and consulted Master Kangcang, who advised: "Chu has its own treasures. Presenting a replica would be unacceptable to them, but offering the genuine article would shame them for their excessive demands."

This scripture elucidates the proper way of governance for rulers through historical anecdotes and principles of statecraft.

The text first cites the historical lesson from the state of Chu (Jing): Chu lost the support of feudal lords due to its excessive use of punishments and unjust conduct. When the lords heard that the state of Zheng (referred to as "Hu Gui Rong Gong") was coming to attack, the people of Chu realized: "They follow the principles of sages—how can we continue to display brutality?" They immediately corrected their mistakes, returned plundered goods, and improved relations with neighboring states.

It then expounds on universal human traits: all people desire life and detest death, seek stability and fear danger, pursue honor and avoid disgrace. If a ruler indulges personal desires, officials will emulate this behavior, leading to the wealthy exhausting their resources and the poor depleting their strength, resulting in social disorder. When basic needs go unmet, people will flee and hide; officials' pursuit only compounds suffering, ultimately sparking collective rebellion.

The scripture specifically warns against governance pitfalls: do not forcibly relocate people to boost population, do not exhaust citizens with city wall construction, keep taxes moderate, and administer punishments justly. Incompetent officials and misguided policies that compete with the people for benefit breed cunning minds, creating mutual suspicion between rulers and subjects, rendering rewards and punishments ineffective, and destabilizing society.

Finally, it presents the key to governance: selecting talent based on demonstrated capability. Those capable of governing a village should manage village affairs; those qualified for county administration should oversee counties, and so forth. For local wrongdoers, first educate and admonish; if unrepentant, then apply disciplinary measures. These principles demonstrate that rulers must restrain desires, appoint the worthy, and empathize with the people's condition to maintain lasting peace and stability.

The Kangcangzi passage discusses the art of governance through talent selection. It emphasizes that the primary task of ruling a state lies in identifying virtuous individuals. Among one hundred candidates, perhaps fewer than five may be selected through literary examinations; ten might yield one or two when judged by speech alone. Yet by observing their shen-tai qi-du (the harmony between inner cultivation and outward demeanor), eight or nine out of ten can be accurately chosen—this reflects the unique discernment of sagely rulers.

Foolish sovereigns who rely solely on literary merit attract ostentatious opportunists while burying genuinely modest talents. Those who prioritize eloquence in selection breed smooth-talkers, leaving outspoken loyalists marginalized. If only superficial appearances are considered, those with dignified exteriors but deceitful hearts rise to power, while the truly virtuous remain overlooked. Under such circumstances, the more "talented" the court becomes, the greater the chaos in governance.

The realm is like a priceless vessel, and the imperial throne its most crucial position. With worthy talents, the state finds stability; without them, turmoil ensues. Thus, rulers should devote meticulous effort to selection but grant full trust once appointments are made. How can one govern effectively or unite the people without thorough scrutiny of candidates?

The text particularly highlights the gravity of judicial fairness. Wise officials may employ strategy to guide, authority to震慑, reason to persuade, or punishment to discipline—yet all must culminate in impartial judgment. Only then will the people live without entitlement and die without resentment. Such officials embody ideal governance, fostering societal harmony where all endeavors flourish, and ruler-subject unity resembles familial bonds, naturally securing the state.

The passage concludes with King Ping of Zhou as exemplar: After restoring his rightful throne and capital, he tirelessly sought talent, rejoicing for days at each recommendation. His courtiers continually nominated outstanding ministers for over a year. The king remarked, "My virtue remains insufficiently radiant—I fear overlooking recluses in remote valleys. How could I refuse wise counsel and isolate myself?" This epitomizes the enlightened ruler’s thirst for excellence.

This passage comes from Master Kangcang (Kangcangzi), primarily discussing principles of governance. It contrasts the ruling methods of prosperous and declining eras:

In times of clear and enlightened governance, rulers distance themselves from sycophantic ministers and dismiss officials who form cliques and engage in flattery. In such states, carriages, horses, and clothing emphasize simplicity, laws are generous and straightforward, and prohibitions are moderate and appropriate. This approach brings three benefits: the people do not excessively envy extravagance and thus remain content with their labor; society lacks excessive taboos, allowing free expression; and laws are easy to follow, helping people distinguish good from evil and value virtue (De). This is what is called "accordance" (shun), "harmony" (he), and "rectitude" (zheng)—the fundamental principles of governance.

Conversely, in times of decline, carriages, horses, and clothing pursue ornate refinement, laws become overly intricate, and prohibitions turn harsh and unreasonable. This leads to three harmful consequences: people admire superficial glamour over loyalty; society becomes riddled with taboos, creating barriers between rulers and subjects; and prohibitions grow so severe that people grow reckless, no longer fearing even death. These are the traits of "superficiality" (fu), "obstruction" (se), and "recklessness" (mao)—the very steps toward national chaos.

Finally, when Lord Xiong Yu of Jing asked about the relationship between floods, droughts, and the stability of the state, Master Kangcang replied: Floods and droughts are natural disasters, but order and chaos depend on human affairs. If human affairs are harmonious, even floods and droughts cause little harm, as seen in the eras of Emperor Yao and King Tang of Shang. The Zhiguan text of the Zhou dynasty wisely states: "Human strength can overcome natural calamities." But if human affairs deteriorate, even without floods or droughts, the state will still collapse.

When the ruler of Chu faced his kingdom's decline, he reverently sought advice from Master Kangcang on governance. Presenting precious jade disks (ten pairs of Hongbi) and appointing Kangcang as vice chancellor (Yayin), he hoped to salvage the crisis. Though Kangcang reluctantly accepted the post, he soon quietly left Chu for another state.

Master Kangcang held that in a well-governed society: mountains and forests harbor no hypocritical hermits, markets no fraudulent profiteers, and courts no salaries gained through flattery. Asked how to cultivate genuine simplicity among the people, he replied: Complex and harsh decrees breed deceit; unified and straightforward policies restore natural integrity. The people’s character shifts like the inchworm’s color—yellow when eating yellow leaves, green when eating green.

On national prosperity, Kangcang observed: Reasonable taxes levied seasonally, coupled with frugal governance, enrich the people; excessive levies and official extravagance inevitably impoverish them. He illustrated this with metaphors: A finely crafted arrowhead (Gouyue’s gǎn-zú) fletched with raptor feathers, if used as a mere stick, differs little from a dead branch—but mounted on a powerful crossbow, it intimidates foes 300 paces away. The famed "Flying Light" sword (Feijing), if only cutting grass, resembles a sickle; yet deployed against evil, it terrifies malefactors across a thousand li. The key lies in deploying talent appropriately and aligning with the times.

Recalling the peace of ancient sage-kings, Kangcang attributed it to following nature’s flow without interference. In recent eras, cunning multiplied while integrity dwindled; fame-seekers proliferated as the humble receded. Silver-tongued villains drowned out honest counsel, breeding mutual suspicion. He proposed laws should be simple to obey yet hard to violate, and reform must prioritize streamlining governance. Only by uprooting local tyrants can officials serve without fear; strict law enforcement deters corruption, ensuring public prosperity.

Quoting the Classic of Documents (Shi Xing), he concluded: Pardon accidental offenses—but sparingly. Frequent pardons embolden the wicked, tempt ordinary folk, and suppress the virtuous. For grave societal harms, issue widespread warrants (guang tiao) and punish rigorously by law.

The "Way of Rulership" chapter of Master Kangcang discusses principles of governance and the proper conduct of sovereigns.

Regarding policies of pardon, the text observes: If evildoers are repeatedly granted clemency while the virtuous receive no reward, who would still choose the path of goodness? Those pardoned for wickedness often grow more brazen in their misconduct, leading to increasingly cunning commoners and ever harsher officials—a vicious cycle. This does not stem from people's lack of reverence for the divine, but rather from the proliferation of smooth-tongued flatterers and excessive improper sacrifices (lit. "licentious worship"), which only provoke greater divine wrath.

Concerning the Dao of rulership: Heaven generates all things, while humans nurture them. Only those who can nourish all beings in accordance with natural laws deserve the title "Son of Heaven." The Son of Heaven establishes offices to protect the people's lives, yet foolish rulers harm their subjects by creating excessive bureaucracy—thus betraying the original purpose of governance. Just as stagnant vegetation rots, clustered trees breed insects, and bodily stagnation causes illness, when a state becomes stagnant (yu), calamities multiply. This "stagnation of the state" manifests when the ruler's virtue fails to reach the people and their grievances cannot ascend to the throne.

Thus, enlightened sovereigns particularly value loyal ministers who dare speak truth, for they can unblock such stagnation. If a ruler restrains personal desires and upholds ritual propriety (li), worthy talents will naturally gather; when the king personally plows (symbolizing diligent governance) and the queen tends silkworms (symbolizing closeness to the people), the masses will be transformed through moral influence. Herein lies the principle: True worthies cannot be sought by force—those obtained through coercion may lack genuine virtue; the people require education rather than harsh punishments, for excessive penal measures distort the righteous path (Dao).

Sage-kings like Yao and Shun devoted themselves to governance with minimal personal desires, enabling all under heaven to fulfill their aspirations. Though occupying the highest position, they harbored no greed, allowing the people to follow their true nature. Some worthy individuals are beloved by all yet overlooked by rulers; others enjoy the sovereign's favor but lack popular support. Employing those cherished by the multitude brings stability to the state, while relying solely on the ruler's favorites invites peril—how then can a sovereign appoint officials based on personal preferences? Therefore, those who truly value "all under heaven" (tianxia) must restrain their private inclinations. For this "all under heaven" refers precisely to the multitudes of common people.

The Kangcangzi passage discusses the principles of governing a state and selecting personnel. A nation is like an organism composed of countless individuals—only when the people are at peace can the state be stable. Therefore, a wise ruler should focus on identifying genuine talent.

The text uses several metaphors to illustrate the difficulty of discerning true worth: Jade is hard to distinguish because of jade-like strange stones; gold is hard to identify because of gold-resembling yellow copper ore. Just as attaching an eagle's wings to a quail might fool those with poor eyesight into mistaking it for an eagle, only the discerning can see through appearances. Today, some petty individuals are well-versed in the classics and skilled in esoteric arts (such as Daoist medical techniques), dressed in official robes—the ignorant may mistake them for noble men, but those with clear vision recognize them as unworthy.

If the ruler is wise, selecting people based on speech, ability, and conduct is the proper way; if foolish, the same methods will only lead to chaos. The sage selects individuals by valuing unnoticed merits: achievements unheard by the ear, contributions unseen by the eye, and sacrifices unspoken by the mouth. In this way, the people naturally live in peace and prosperity. Conversely, if the ruler only emphasizes visible accomplishments, people will chase empty fame, flaunt their skills, and resort to clever words and flattery, leading to political decay.

A mirror reflecting outward appearances is of minor use; a worthy scholar who reveals the ruler's faults is of great use. If the ruler can purify the mind and reduce desires (a Daoist method of refining the heart), and if ministers faithfully fulfill their duties, an era of peace will naturally arrive. But if the ruler lacks inner clarity, all things under heaven will fall into disorder.

The passage concludes: Selecting officials based on superficial impressions leads to bloated bureaucracy and political chaos, while choosing through careful thought results in streamlined governance and clarity. In times of peace, one must seek those who do not seek attention, but in chaotic times, people focus only on outward glamour. Sadly, many rulers fail to grasp this truth, always relying on hearsay to appoint officials.

This passage from Kangcangzi discusses how to distinguish loyal ministers from treacherous ones, and the signs of a nation's prosperity or decline.

On official selection: If people are chosen based on appearances, officials will compete to embellish themselves for fame; if their character is examined through careful observation, officials will maintain upright and diligent virtue (De). Truly righteous officials can educate the people without harsh laws, while those who seek empty fame cannot be restrained even with punishments.

Signs of a nation's prosperity: Though court officials may differ in appearance and temperament, and hold varying opinions, their fundamental intentions all serve the state. Those who dare to offer candid advice incur no resentment, and dismissed officials bear no grudges. Deliberations always maintain proper measure without violating reason. Such a nation enjoys favorable weather, abundant resources, contented people, protection from spirits, and the allegiance of foreign tribes.

Signs of a nation's decline: Officials appear polished, their words eloquent, their manners refined—seemingly harmonious. Yet their true intentions revolve around power struggles. They react with alarm to differing views and ostracize dissenters. Such a nation suffers frequent natural disasters, strange phenomena emerge from the earth, morality decays, and foreign enemies invade.

True loyal and virtuous ministers achieve this: They don't squander resources, burden the people, or mistreat subordinates, yet accomplish great deeds that enrich the populace and enhance the ruler's virtue (De). Treacherous ministers do the opposite: They exhaust resources, oppress the people, undermine governance, pursuing only immediate rewards while sowing disaster for the state.

Kangcangzi (a Daoist figure) outlines principles for serving a ruler: The heart must be impartial, the attitude gentle, and speech upright. Be just but not rigid, gentle but not conformist, upright but not offensive to tradition. Ancient worthy ministers worked diligently for the state, while some today work for personal fame. Those serving the state consider the greater good; those serving fame obsess over minor details. Truly good officials act according to the principles of the Dao (the Way).

The text from Kangcangzi primarily discusses the core principles of ruler-minister relations and the way of virtuous talent.

Regarding ruler-minister relations: If the ruler indulges in pleasure, ministers occupy positions without fulfilling their duties, and lower officials fail to act with impartiality, then the court's salaries lose their meaning. When the ruler does not respect high ministers nor trust minor officials, the court cannot function effectively. The capable may not be loyal, and the loyal may not be capable. Ministers should not fear disloyalty, but rather fear exhausting their loyalty without gaining the ruler's trust; they should not fear distrust, but rather fear being entrusted with responsibilities they cannot fulfill. When superior talents can express their innate nature, the world will be well-governed; when mediocre talents indulge their nature, the world will fall into chaos. A wise ruler, when employing superior talents, should grant them real authority to act freely; when employing mediocre talents, he must establish evaluation standards and clarify systems of reward and punishment.

Concerning the way of virtuous talent: The reason virtuous individuals are hard to find and quick to withdraw is not that they fear death or refuse to serve the state, but that they worry about exhausting their loyalty without gaining the ruler's trust. True virtuous individuals appear outwardly humble yet are inwardly forthright; they interact with others harmoniously and uprightly without frivolity. When close to them, they seem more dignified; when distant, they depart without resentment. In adversity, they accept fate; in prosperity, they adhere to the Dao. Some may appear virtuous outwardly, but upon examining their spiritual essence and performance, they prove disappointing. When truly virtuous people are employed, they offer tactful advice in court and maintain respectful silence outside, diligently fulfilling their duties while living simply; when unemployed, they blend into the crowd, restrain their brilliance, and find contentment in poverty. The wise do not doubt what should be done; the discerning do not doubt whom to trust. True virtuous individuals behave with integrity that cannot be slighted; their words are modest, yet their principles are unshakable. In times of peace, superior talents contribute wisdom, mediocre talents exhaust their patience, and ordinary people contribute labor.

The text concludes with the story of Pouzi of Qi: This virtuous and capable man could have revitalized the state, honored his parents, and earned the praise of his village, yet poverty forced him to wander. He clung to integrity but met obstacles everywhere, even being mocked by opportunists. Thus, leaning on his staff, he went to consult Kangcangzi, saying he had heard that the Perfected (those who attain the Dao) transcend emotions, while ordinary people do not understand them. Yet he, belonging to the class that values education and reveres integrity, did not know how to conduct himself. This dialogue leads to deeper reflections on the way of navigating life.

This passage elucidates the true meaning of integrity and righteousness (Daoyi). Those who are genuinely trustworthy often aren't recognized by the world as such; those who truly practice righteousness never boast of possessing it. Such virtuous individuals frequently endure hardship yet remain steadfast in their principles.

Master Kangcang (a Daoist recluse) sighed while straightening his robe: In times of enlightened governance, integrity and righteousness flourish naturally; in eras of moral darkness, they withdraw into obscurity. Regardless of changing circumstances, true Dao practitioners must preserve their fundamental nature. To fail in practicing one's authentic nature is to lose the Dao (the Way) itself. During ages of moral decline, genuine sages choose reclusion.

When Lord Ji (a Zhou dynasty minister) asked how to attract worthy talents, Kangcang replied: True worthies may be awaited but never coerced. The key lies in the ruler's self-cultivation—if the emperor practices Wuwei (non-action), ministers uphold impartial justice, punishments spare no privileged class, and benevolence reaches all common people, virtuous men will naturally come to serve. When worthies are employed, the world gains clear perception, the people find peace, and even spirits cannot create disturbances.

The text further explains how different governance attracts different talents: An industrious and enlightened ruler with harmonious ministers draws upright and principled scholars; a suspicious tyrant with impatient sycophants invites opportunists; a self-righteous sovereign with power-clinging officials gathers fame-seekers; an indecisive leader with cunning flatterers attracts hypocrites.

Historical examples of enlightened rulers are cited: The Yellow Emperor attracted Changxian and Fenghong; Tang of Shang gained Yi Yin; King Xuan of Zhou obtained Fuhou and Shenbo; Duke Huan of Qi secured Ning Qi—all because these rulers themselves practiced the Great Dao, extended benevolent governance, and radiated moral clarity, naturally attracting worthy talents. This demonstrates that true talents aren't hunted through deliberate searches but summoned through virtuous resonance.

This passage from Master Kangcang primarily discusses the distinction between sages and ordinary talents, as well as how to discern genuine sages.

Duke Ji asked Master Kangcang: You claim that sages come without being sought, but might those who are not sages also arrive unsummoned? Master Kangcang replied: In times of peace under heaven, sages naturally appear; in times of chaos, those who are not sages will also actively seek positions. Yet in reality, enlightened rulers are few while foolish ones abound, just as sages are rare while mediocrities proliferate—hence it's common for non-sages to arrive unbidden.

Regarding the difference between sages and ordinary talents: Sages withdraw after achieving merit, maintaining simplicity and frugality; ordinary talents pursue fame, wealth and status, becoming complacent in their success. Sages govern through wuwei (non-action), leaving the people unaware of their influence; talents govern through diligent administration, making the people feel their beneficence. One sage can lead multitudes of talents, yet multitudes of talents cannot equal a single sage.

Methods for discerning sages: One must not judge by appearances alone. Some recluses in mountain forests may seem boisterous yet embody integrity, while certain worldly figures may appear composed yet harbor deceit. Truly discerning individuals neither assess learning solely through speech, nor judge qi (vital energy) and bearing through mere demeanor, nor equate reputation with goodness, nor dismiss substance because of slander.

In the "Chapter on Instructing the Dao," Minzi Xun asked Confucius about the distinction between the Dao (the Way) and filial piety. Confucius explained that the Dao is the mysterious principle of nature's operation, while filial piety represents the highest expression of human ethics. The Dao nurtures all things yet claims no merit; the essence of filial piety lies in reverently serving one's parents, constantly remembering their teachings, and never forgetting them in word or deed.

The Kangcangzi passage discusses the principles of fulfilling filial piety and educating children.

On filial piety: Children should constantly remember their parents' kindness, never forgetting their teachings in every action. Serving one's ruler requires loyalty, maintaining trustworthiness with friends, managing subordinates with respect, and pursuing virtuous deeds with diligence. Even when alone in one's chamber, one must not relax this sincerity—this constitutes "perfect filial devotion." Utmost sincerity can move the divine, illuminating all within the Four Seas. Those who serve their parents well will receive corresponding blessings.

Two examples are given: Emperor Shun, despite repeated persecution from his stepmother and father, only grew more reverent and careful without resentment. When buried in a well, divine spirits manifested to rescue him, and ultimately his profound filial virtue enabled him to become ruler of the realm. King Wen of Zhou, while crown prince, would inquire after his parents' well-being morning and evening outside their chambers, personally tasting their medicine and food to ensure proper temperature. If his parents erred, he would tactfully remonstrate; whatever they cherished, he treated with reverence. His filial conduct moved Heaven, so even the tyrant King Zhou couldn't harm him, and the Zhou dynasty endured for seven centuries.

On educating children: Min Ziqian asked Confucius about child-rearing. Confucius replied that the Three Sage Kings (of Xia, Shang, and Zhou) all emphasized ritual and music for cultivation. Music nurtures the inner self while ritual regulates outward conduct—cultivating both develops refined character. As ministers, if sacrificing oneself benefits the ruler, one should do so—how much more should one improve oneself to better assist the ruler? Therefore, one must select and nurture loyal, upright individuals.

(Note: "Kangcangzi" is a Daoist figure; "Yu Shun" refers to Emperor Shun; "Min Ziqian" was Confucius' disciple; "Zhongni" was Confucius' courtesy name.)

The Kangcangzi passage expounds wisdom on personal conduct and self-cultivation.

A virtuous person becomes a teacher to clarify the ethical relationships between father and son, ruler and subject, elder and junior. One must first understand how to be a good child before becoming a worthy parent; learn to be a proper subject before qualifying as a sovereign; master serving others before leading them. This embodies the fundamental principle ancient sage-kings used to educate their descendants.

Min Ziji (a renowned filial son of the Spring and Autumn period) served his parents at home for three years, during which none could fault his conduct. Friends praised his integrity, villagers commended his benevolence, clansmen lauded his reverence—his reputation spread throughout the land, all because he truly understood filial devotion.

When the Crown Prince of Qi sat reading on Qing Terrace, the Yan envoy Zhuang Hou arrived adorned with jade ornaments and sword. The prince remained absorbed in his book without glancing at the envoy, who asked: "Does Qi possess treasures?" The prince replied: "A ruler's trustworthiness, ministers' loyalty, and the people's support—these are our kingdom's true treasures." Hearing this, the envoy immediately removed his sword and departed. Humans often carry flaws they never recognize in their lifetime. The wise tolerate without comment; petty men exaggerate them; relatives distort them through jealousy. Therefore, noble persons constantly examine themselves as though perpetually at fault. Even in clothing and eating, they maintain proper measure. Knowing one's faults yet failing to correct them—this the noble deem shameful.

Before criticizing others, examine whether you've done sufficiently well yourself; before condemning others' impropriety, assess your own uprightness. This embodies the principle of "turning the mirror inward."

Zhai Xi's son was originally filial, but Zhai Xi habitually deceived him. Leaving in the morning, he'd return at night claiming "A has died"—only for A to be alive. Another day: "B seeks to harm me"—yet no such plot existed. Later: "D has fallen ill"—but D remained healthy. After years of this, though the son remained dutiful, he grew increasingly distrustful of his father's words. When villagers later sought to kill Zhai Xi for his slander, his frightened warnings met his son's skepticism—until the execution occurred. This demonstrates how reckless speech invites calamity, and why words require measured caution.

This passage from Master Kangcang discusses principles for personal conduct and state governance, divided into two main sections:

The first part concerns self-cultivation. Those who appear relaxed yet harbor inner restlessness may seem carefree but actually have scattered minds; those with clean exteriors but sullied interiors appear upright while being otherwise. Truly wise individuals understand this duality: sometimes maintaining inner stillness while engaging outwardly, other times contemplating deeply while awaiting the right moment. Reversing this—forcing calmness over inner agitation or chasing profits through exhausting pursuits—damages one's inherent nature (性) and ruins reputation. Those perpetually lamenting "being born at the wrong time" court danger like prisoners awaiting execution. Genuine talents overlooked by their era should recognize this as a matter of untimely opportunity rather than misfortune.

On persuasion: skilled advisors guide others according to their temperament, fostering harmony; unskilled ones confront directly, deepening conflicts. What delights children often displeases elders; what pleases ears and eyes may harm the heart (心). Those constantly accusing others of folly lack wisdom themselves; those labeling people as confused remain unenlightened. Holding imperfect standards against the multitude ultimately harms only oneself.

The second section focuses on the "Way of Agriculture" (农道) as governance's foundation. When people abandon roots for branches, decrees lose unity, leaving states vulnerable in defense and warfare. Neglecting agriculture—the fundamental root—impoverishes households, creating displacement and national calamities that scatter communal spirit. Prioritizing commerce over farming breeds cunning, legal manipulation, and moral inversion. Ancient sage-kings governed by first honoring agriculture. Cultivating land wasn't merely about utilizing soil—it nurtured simplicity of character. Simple farmers are easily governed, securing borders and stabilizing rulers. Farming fosters steadiness, reducing selfish desires and distractions.

This passage from Master Kangcang primarily discusses the governance philosophy of ancient sage-kings who emphasized agricultural production. The core message is: establishing fair legal systems enables farmers to focus on cultivation, thereby increasing grain yields. With abundant food supplies, people will not become displaced but will willingly settle into productive lives, uniting the world in harmony.

The ancient sage-kings placed particular importance on farming and weaving. The Son of Heaven personally led feudal lords to plow the ceremonial fields (sacred fields tilled by the emperor), while the empress guided palace women in gathering mulberry leaves and raising silkworms in the countryside. Men were responsible for farming, women for weaving—this division of labor between genders was a system established by the sage-kings. Agricultural seasons were to be cherished; unless one was elderly or ill, no one was exempt from labor. During peak farming periods, no construction projects were initiated, armies were not mobilized, and marriages were postponed to avoid disrupting agricultural work.

The Yellow Emperor once said: The cyclical patterns of the four seasons cannot be altered—what matters is seizing the critical moments for planting the five grains. Crops depend on human effort for sowing, on the land for growth, and on timely weather for nourishment. When cultivating, attention must be paid to: leaving adequate space between fields, weeding meticulously, and harvesting promptly. Fifty-seven days after the winter solstice, plowing begins. One must observe the growth patterns of crops—plant when it's time to plant, harvest when it's time to harvest.

Specific farming methods include: hoeing should be done during dry spells to loosen and enrich the soil; seeds should be sown in soft earth, neither too densely nor too sparsely; furrows should be dug deep and straight, fields fertile and level. Only then can crops thrive robustly. Those who fail to grasp agricultural timing—planting too early or too late—practice the worst form of cultivation.

This passage expounds on the principle of aligning agricultural practices with celestial timing, illustrating the importance of seizing opportune moments by comparing crops planted at proper versus missed seasons.

Crops should grow in balanced strength without mutual obstruction. Fields must be properly prepared with adequate ventilation to ensure bountiful harvests. Weeds left unchecked will render fields barren, yet excessive weeding depletes the soil's vitality. Young seedlings require appropriate spacing, mature plants need mutual support, and ripening crops should lean on one another - only then will grains yield abundantly.

The greatest concern lies in uneven crop growth where some mature early while others lag. Early-maturing grains grow plump, whereas late-developing ones often remain hollow. Thus when weeding, retain robust sprouts and remove weaker ones. Fertile land shouldn't be overplanted, nor should poor soil be under-sown. Overdense planting in rich soil yields hollow grains, while sparse planting in poor earth produces withered seedlings. Those unskilled in weeding often keep weak sprouts and remove strong ones, ultimately reaping mostly blighted grain.

Crops planted in season exhibit ideal characteristics: Rice grows thick-stalked with large, round panicles, thin husks, and fragrant, easily-cooked grains; Millet produces long spikes without awns, yielding full kernels with minimal chaff; Beans develop long stems with short joints, bearing clustered pods amid lush foliage; Wheat forms orderly rows of long spikes with dark necks, nourishing those who consume it with robust strength.

Out-of-season crops show opposite traits: Rice grows thin-stemmed with thick husks, prone to withering; Millet develops excessive foliage but stunted spikes; Beans produce rampant vines with sparse pods; Wheat appears as feeble seedlings with small spikes that cause illness when eaten.

Thus crops following celestial timing flourish, while those defying it fail. Choosing seasonally appropriate grains strengthens limbs, sharpens senses, wards off pathogenic Qi (vital energy), and prevents illness. As Confucius observed: Winter fullness brings warmth, summer satiety yields coolness. Maintaining this temperate balance makes one resistant to disease.

The Kangcangzi scripture primarily addresses two major themes: the Dao (Way) of governing a state and the principles of military strategy.

Regarding state governance, the text states: When the people are free from epidemics and diseases, they can all live out their natural lifespans. Grain is the foundation of human survival, thus enlightened rulers must prioritize agriculture. If a ruler neglects farming, it is tantamount to abandoning his subjects. What kind of state can a ruler who abandons his people possibly govern?

In the Chapter on Military Dao, a dialogue is recorded between Lord Jing of Qin and Kangcangzi (a Daoist figure). When Lord Jing sought to flaunt military might, Kangcangzi pointed out: Warfare has existed as long as human history itself. Military force is an expression of human authority, and this authority stems from innate nature. The signs of war often begin within the heart: harbored resentment is war, glaring eyes are war, vicious words are war, and large-scale invasions are certainly war.

The scripture cites historical examples: Long before Chi You's time, people fought with wooden weapons; by the Yellow Emperor's era, water and fire were already used in battles; Gonggong rebelled; the Five Emperors waged wars against each other. The author employs three analogies to argue against abandoning essential tools due to potential misuse: we shouldn't ban medicine because some die from drugs, prohibit boats because some drown, nor completely abolish military force because some states perish through warfare.

Finally, it emphasizes: Military force is like water and fire—properly used it brings benefit, recklessly employed it invites disaster. Families need discipline, states require laws, and the world necessitates punitive campaigns. Ancient sage-kings advocated "righteous armies" (yibing) rather than complete disarmament. Just wars can overthrow tyrants and relieve suffering—the people welcome such armies as filial children greet loving mothers or starving men encounter nourishing food.

This passage from Master Kangcang discusses the art of warfare, centering on the concept of "righteous armies." When the command to charge is given, soldiers advance with the unstoppable force of a crossbow bolt shot into a deep valley. The key to victory lies not in external factors but in understanding human nature—people desire life and fear death, crave honor and detest disgrace. By unifying these psychological tendencies, an army can achieve perfect cohesion.

A truly formidable army values strict discipline in its commands. When orders are firm, the enemy appears weak; when orders are trustworthy, the enemy submits. Victory in battle is first secured through superior military discipline; actual combat merely confirms it. Invaders come seeking gain, but if they realize that advancing means death while retreating brings benefit, then conflict can be resolved without fighting—this is the highest art of war.

Brutality and deceit are fundamentally incompatible with the principles of benevolence and righteousness. When a righteous army enters enemy territory, it must: avoid trampling crops, leave graves undisturbed, refrain from plundering, spare homes from fire, and return captured individuals unharmed. Through these actions, it clarifies right and wrong, distinguishing obedience from defiance. Only if some remain obstinately defiant should force be employed.

Before deploying troops, a declaration should be made: "We act to rid the people of harm and follow the Dao (the Way) of Heaven." In conquering a state, indiscriminate killing is forbidden—only the chief instigators are punished. The virtuous and capable are appointed to office, the orphaned and widowed are cared for, and granaries are opened to relieve the poor. Such a righteous army, saving many lives, naturally draws the people’s allegiance. Wherever it marches, neighboring populations flock like flowing water to join, while the oppressed regard it as their parent.

The passage concludes with Lord Jing (the listener), moved by Master Kangcang’s teachings, rising to bow in reverence. He declares that the master’s wisdom fills him with heroic spirit spanning heaven and earth, deepening his humility. He then offers a toast in honor of Master Kangcang, acknowledging him as his teacher. (Note: Kangcangzi is an important Daoist figure, traditionally regarded as a disciple of Laozi. This passage reflects the Daoist military philosophy of "subduing others through De (Virtue/Power).")

Kang Cangzi (a legendary Daoist immortal) placed great emphasis on the purity of ritual purification during his cultivation practice. Every ten days, he would enter seclusion in a purification chamber to practice, selecting specific auspicious days (tianguan refers to crucial time periods) to perform Daoist methods during daylight hours. The term "xingdao" (practicing the Dao) in the text has two possible interpretations: first, it refers to cultivating Daoist methods; second, it may indicate performing disciple rites (as noted in variant texts within parentheses), meaning leading disciples in ritual worship and practice. This reflects the Daoist cultivation tradition's emphasis on selecting proper timing, purifying sacred space, and maintaining the master-disciple transmission lineage.