《劉子》Vol. 10

Chapter 51 of the Liu Zi discusses the principles of evaluation and reward-punishment. Rewards and punishments serve to discern truth, while evaluations serve to measure principles. If rewards and punishments are unjust, truth becomes obscured; if evaluations are unfair, principles become distorted.

The distortion of principles stems from people venerating antiquity while belittling the present, and the confusion of truth arises from trusting hearsay while neglecting firsthand observation. Though ancient and modern times differ, the essence of matters remains similar; though sensory perceptions vary, understanding should remain consistent. When understanding is consistent yet rewards and punishments differ, this cannot be called just; when matters are identical yet evaluations vary, this cannot be considered reasonable evaluation. Without unified standards of evaluation, both principle and truth become disordered.

Consider how people today find it easy to paint ghosts well but difficult to portray dogs and horses accurately. This is because ghosts have no concrete form and allow free imagination, while dogs and horses possess real forms that must be depicted truthfully. Imaginary things can use the bizarre to display wonder, while tangible things cannot be arbitrarily distorted. Even when painted with perfect realism, people may still doubt their likeness.

In the past, Duke Ai of Lu admired the ancient worthies Ji and Xie (legendary virtuous ministers of Yao and Shun's era) yet failed to recognize Confucius right before him; Duke Jing of Qi revered Guan Zhong's strategies yet overlooked Yan Ying's wisdom; Zhang Bosong of the Han dynasty admired Dong Zhongshu's erudition yet neglected Yang Xiong's (styled Ziyun) talent. A sage like Confucius was no less worthy than Ji or Xie; Yan Ying's virtue was no inferior to Guan Zhong's; Yang Xiong's scholarship was no weaker than Dong Zhongshu's. That they went unappreciated—was this not precisely because people value antiquity over the present, esteem the distant while disparaging the near, trust hearsay over direct observation, and revere empty fame while neglecting substance?

Common evaluations often don't intentionally elevate some while denigrating others, but rather arise when good and bad are intermixed, truth and falsehood indistinguishable, and people habitually measure things by old standards while judging right and wrong by subjective preferences. Just as weighing minute quantities by hand yields inaccuracy while a balance scale discerns the finest difference. Therefore, sages knew that right and wrong are hard to distinguish, weight and lightness difficult to gauge, so they established laws to measure things. Like how a suspended scale cannot be deceived about weight, a stretched ink line cannot distort straightness, or drawn compasses cannot confuse square and round. Thus we must emulate the patterns of Heaven and Earth's natural order and follow the standards of sages—only then can we evaluate matters correctly.

This passage illustrates through vivid anecdotes how people often make erroneous judgments due to lack of discernment.

For example, a man from Yue served snake meat to a guest from Qin, passing it off as carp. The guest enjoyed it immensely—until he learned it was snake, at which point he vomited in disgust. This shows ignorance in distinguishing flavors. A man from Zhao composed a tune and claimed it was the work of Bo Ya (an ancient master musician). Everyone rushed to learn it, but when the truth came out, they abandoned it entirely—a failure to recognize true music. A man from Song picked up a stone from Yan and mistook it for precious jade, storing it in a bronze box. When he realized it was just an ordinary rock, he threw both away—proof of his inability to judge jade. A man from Chu wrote a poem and passed it off as the work of Qu Yuan (also known as Lingjun). People eagerly recited it until the deception was exposed, after which they ignored it—revealing their poor literary judgment.

Only a handful of experts could truly discern these things: Yi Ya (a legendary chef) alone could tell snake from carp; Zhong Ziqi (a renowned music connoisseur) alone could detect the flaws in the Zhao man’s fake tune; Yi Dun (a jade expert from Qin) alone could recognize the Yan stone as worthless; and Sima Xiangru (a master poet of the Han dynasty) alone could determine the authenticity of the Chu poem.

The passage then uses metaphors to show how perspective shapes perception: Two men argued over the quality of a piece of jade, each insisting the other place it in his own eye to see clearly. In truth, the jade’s form was fixed—the difference lay in their eyes. Similarly, gold ornaments on a pearl screen might be mistaken for flickering flames when glanced at hastily; a cup-shaped mirror held vertically elongates Xi Shi’s face, while tilting it horizontally widens it—yet her beauty remains unchanged. People by the sea might mistake distant islands for boats or boats for wild ducks; those at a mountain’s base might see trees as hairpins or tigers as dogs. All these errors stem from distance and skewed vantage points.

The passage concludes with its central point: When judging people or literature, observers often mistake the grand for the trivial and the significant for the insignificant—all due to flawed perspectives.

The text from Master Liu conveys two main layers of meaning:

The first section employs several classical anecdotes to illustrate how people often judge right and wrong by superficial appearances. Confucius was mocked by attendants for eating millet first, though millet was actually the noblest among the Five Grains and deserved precedence. Disciples like Ziyu quoting proverbs in fur robes or Zeng Shen gesturing with fingers were similarly ridiculed. Even the actions of sages invite derision—how much more so ordinary people? This reveals how society routinely mistakes the proper for the perverse and beauty for ugliness, a lamentable inversion of name and reality.

The second segment uses natural metaphors to demonstrate environmental influence: standing atop mountains inspires one to gaze afar, while facing ravines draws the eye to graves—such are the emotions terrain evokes. Snowdrifts gather in abandoned city corners, fierce winds arise over sandy riverbeds. Likewise, those who cultivate restraint often emerge from impoverished homes (the "jar-windowed" poor), while those who sacrifice life for righteousness invariably possess soaring aspirations. Just as the piannan tree develops exquisite burls under pressure, or oysters produce pearls through suffering; as birds must strain to reach azure clouds, and arrows must pierce the void to cross snow-capped peaks.

A final supplement cites Duke Mu of Qin: when craftsmen spent three years perfecting a bow, the duke tested it only to find it couldn’t pierce a single armor layer, and ordered their execution. The artisan’s daughter explained—the bow was crafted from mulberry wood of Chaoyang Mountain, inspected thrice daily, bonded with spring glue and deer sinew, with arrow shafts meticulously selected over three years. This implies true excellence requires time to reveal itself; snap judgments based on initial performance are misguided.

The core message critiques society’s habit of fixating on surfaces while neglecting essence, urging readers to emulate the "discerning noble" who distinguishes truth from falsehood—appreciating subtle virtues without exaggerating faint glimmers.

This passage recounts stories of historical figures who achieved greatness through adversity, conveying the core idea that "hardship awakens potential."

One story tells of a woman defending her father: "If the king's arrows cannot pierce even one layer of armor, then my father deserves punishment. But the king himself doesn't understand archery's essentials—the left hand should press like restraining a tiger, the right hand should support like holding a branch, and the right mustn't waver when the left releases the arrow—yet he would execute my father." Upon hearing this, Duke Mu personally demonstrated his archery—his arrow flew over hills with such force it could pierce stone bridges, the fletching not even fully emerging, proving the bow's untapped power. This illustrates how pressure unlocks potential, just as gales can snap trees and torrents move boulders—though wind and water's nature is soft, under certain conditions they generate tremendous force.

The text then enumerates several historical examples:

Su Qin (Warring States strategist) said had he owned fifty acres near city walls, he'd never have become chancellor of six states; Zhufu Yan (Western Han minister), despised by relatives in his impoverished youth, later dined from five ritual cauldrons (a feudal lord's privilege); Zhang Yi (Warring States advisor) wouldn't have aspired to serve Qin without suffering humiliation below the hall; Fan Ju (Qin chancellor) wouldn't have sought vengeance against Wei without being shamed in a privy; Ning Yue (Zhou scholar), still a servant at thirty, studied relentlessly for fifteen years to become King Wei of Zhou's tutor; Ban Chao (Eastern Han general), motivated by indignation, mastered martial arts and achieved glory in the Western Regions.

These sages all found purpose through hardship, forging their reputations in adversity. Level roads are easy to walk; steep mountain paths challenge climbers. Nags plod downhill slowly, while flying squirrels scale cliffs. Precisely because it's difficult, it becomes precious; precisely because it's rare, it reveals worth. Ancient determined scholars could break through constraints and rise from humiliation because their talents met opportune moments, making them valuable to the world.

The final notation "Cherishing Time, Chapter Fifty-Three" likely marks a section division, emphasizing the importance of seizing moments for self-cultivation.

Placing a lamp inside a vat makes the vat its stand. Though the flame before and the flame after appear identical, human eyes cannot discern the difference; hiding a mountain within a marsh, today’s contours may resemble yesterday’s, yet the wise know they are no longer the same. Why? Because the flame extinguishes and rekindles moment by moment, and the mountain shifts imperceptibly over time.

The heavens revolve, the sun moves, and time flows swiftly as a flying arrow—even the legendary swift steed Yaoniao could not catch it. Human life is as brief as a spark struck from flint, vanishing in an instant. Only by establishing virtue (De) and leaving behind benevolence can one attain immortality. The noble sages of old sought to spread righteousness throughout the world, racing against time—Yu the Great, taming the floods, did not pause even when branches snagged his hat; Nanrong Chu, pursuing the Dao (the Way), wore out his heels yet never halted his steps.

Laozi’s disciples questioned the elder about the great Dao (the Way); Confucius traveled the states, departing before the soot could blacken his chimney; Mozi journeyed tirelessly, never allowing his mat to grow warm. Each practiced their own virtue (De), saving the world from suffering and leaving behind legacies for posterity. Yet people today know only advancement, not retreat, drowning in wealth and indulgence, lost in music and revelry. When they withdraw, they fail to write books to aid enlightened rulers—like locusts devouring millet, they squander their days. In life, they leave no mark; in death, they are but a coffin’s worth of earth—how are they different from wild grass that sprouts and withers unseen?

When autumn arrives, cold winds sway the branches, clear dew yellows the leaves, and cicadas cling to twigs, their shrill cries weaving a mournful tune in the fading light. They lament their fate, soon to end in frost, and pour their sorrow into the lush willows. So too does the cultivator, facing the setting sun, sigh in frustration in the secluded valley—his deeds unfinished, his name unknown in this age of clarity. Thinking of this, how can one not weep until tears soak the robes? All that remains is to entrust one’s thoughts to ink and paper.

Loyalty and filial piety are the most precious of all virtues (De). Without them, even other merits are like a storehouse of jade dust that cannot be carved into ritual vessels, or chests of frayed silk that cannot be woven into fine robes—what use are they in abundance? Sincerity and humility are the roots of goodness, while deceit and strife are the origins of evil. Sometimes, outwardly observing propriety leads to transgression, while seemingly violating it achieves righteousness. Like Zhi Gong, who exposed his father’s theft of a sheep—appearing unfilial, yet upholding justice.

This passage presents several philosophical anecdotes and reflections on moral principles:

The first story tells of a son who reported his father for stealing a sheep. While the son acted with integrity, his action violated filial piety—much like how a man from Cangwu married a beautiful wife only to give her to his elder brother, an act of deference that appears noble yet contradicts proper ritual.

The examples of Xian Gao (a merchant of Zheng who saved his state by falsely claiming royal orders) and Yu the Great (who openly overthrew tyrants) illustrate how actions seemingly contrary to convention may align with the Dao. Comparing tyrants like Jie and Zhou to sages like Bo Yi and Shu Qi would anger people, while likening rulers to virtuous men pleases them—what matters is alignment with benevolence and righteousness. True virtue honors even commoners; its absence devalues nobility.

Natural phenomena mirror human emotions: the bright autumn moon evokes a widow's longing, forest winds reveal a boatman's fear. Yang qi fosters joy through growth, while yin qi brings sorrow through dissolution—thus spring blossoms seem to smile in sunlight, while autumn leaves weep with dew.

The truly virtuous maintain constancy like the sun and moon: whether rising or setting, the sun remains bright; whether waxing or waning, the moon's essence persists. The Dao shows no favoritism between life and death, so humans shouldn't resent its impartiality. Spring blossoms don't refuse to fade, nor do autumn leaves lament their fall—flourishing and decay follow cosmic rhythms.

All things soften with warmth and harden with cold: spring makes animal horns pliable, summer allows tree branches to knot, autumn dew condenses, winter ice becomes brittle. People cherish youth and disdain age, valuing vigor over decline, yet forget that ornate hairpins (zan er) will turn to dust, and decay originates from vitality—all existence cycles through transformation.

Mountains bearing jade get quarried, rivers yielding pearls get drained; leopards die for their spotted pelts, humans suffer envy for their wisdom. The divine turtle's shell is scorched for divination, the miraculous snake is sun-dried for its power—thus revealed brilliance invites harm, while great wisdom appears foolish. Like the archer Hou Yi who couldn't hit minute targets without his bow, yet true marksmanship transcends the weapon; or the craftsman Chui who couldn't demonstrate skill without tools, yet ingenuity lies beyond the implements themselves.

This passage explores the relationship between intrinsic essence and external manifestations, as well as differences in people's preferences toward things.

An axe does not chop by itself—it is the person wielding it that does the chopping. To paint, one must first have a real object to depict its form; to write, one must first have genuine emotions to develop an argument. Without a real object as the foundation, the painting will not resemble anything; without true emotions, the words spoken will not move anyone. Rouge may adorn the face to appear beautiful, but few are truly moved by it; complex melodies may attempt to express sorrow, but few are deeply shaken—all because the essence is not truly refined. If the essence is lacking, no amount of ornamentation can make it splendid; if the melody is discordant, no speed in playing can make it moving.

True emotions arise from within and manifest on the face; genuine feelings emerge from the heart and are expressed through the voice. Thus, someone who feigns fear may smile but not feel joy; someone who forces tears may appear mournful but not truly grieve. Hearing unpleasant sounds is worse than not hearing at all; seeing unpleasant sights is worse than not seeing at all. That is why we cover our ears during thunder and shield our eyes during lightning.

To uphold benevolence and righteousness, one cannot covet profit; to seek profit, one cannot uphold benevolence and righteousness. Thus, grain sellers hope for bad harvests, and medicine sellers hope for people to fall ill. All things value what they excel in—even the dogs of tyrants like Jie and Zhou would bark at the sage-king Yao. The disciples of the robber Zhi, though more virtuous than Zhi himself, looked down on Confucius. When fate turns against them, they blame Heaven; when humiliated, they blame others. It is like blaming the inventor of fire, Suiren, when the house burns down, or blaming the well-digger Boyi when falling into a well. They show no kindness in ordinary times but think of generosity only in hardship; they neglect prevention in small matters but seek remedies only when disaster strikes. This is like digging a well when thirsty or planting trees when hungry—no matter how urgent, it is already too late.

Gongyi (a family name from Chu) particularly loved fish, while Qu Dao adored foxnuts (an aquatic plant). Though not delicacies, everyone found them delicious because they aligned with common tastes. King Wen of Zhou loved bitter gall, and Zeng Xi loved sour jujubes—bitter and tart flavors, yet the two cherished them because they differed from the norm. Deer resemble horses but are faster; jackals resemble dogs but are stronger. A state may have horses worth a thousand gold but no deer of such value; a household may have dogs worth a thousand gold but no jackals of such worth—because dogs and horses are useful, while jackals and deer are not.

Finally, the passage touches on the philosophy of Daoism (represented by Laozi, Guan Yin, Pang Juan, Zhuangzi, and others): taking emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action) as the foundation, purity and tranquility as the heart, humility as virtue, and softness as the guiding principle. They engage in Wuwei actions, teach without words, and accomplish all things in the universe without leaving a trace.

The text from Liu Zi analyzes the core tenets and subsequent shortcomings of six prominent philosophical schools during that period: Confucianism, the Yin-Yang School, the School of Names, Legalism, Mohism, and the School of Diplomacy.

Confucian scholars like Yan Ying, Zisi, Mencius, and Xun Qing advocated aligning with the laws of Yin-Yang, emphasizing moral education as foundational. They studied the Six Arts (rites, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and mathematics) and upheld the Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness). They promoted elaborate funeral rites, valued ritual music systems, modeled themselves after sage-kings like Yao, Shun, King Wen, and King Wu, and revered Confucius as their master. However, later Confucians became overly preoccupied with ceremonial minutiae, rendering their teachings increasingly divorced from practical application.

The Yin-Yang School, represented by figures like Ziwei and Zou Yan, observed the movements of celestial bodies to guide agricultural cycles, mastered the properties of the Five Phases (Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, Earth), and harmonized the energies of the eight directions to improve people's livelihoods. Yet some later practitioners became mired in divinatory taboos and obsessive numerological calculations.

The School of Names, including thinkers like Yin Wen, Hui Shi, and Gongsun Long, focused on rectifying names and establishing proper distinctions. They sought to create social order through standardized terminology, advocating frugality and opposing warfare. Wearing Mount Hua-style caps as symbols of equality, they developed doctrines of tolerance to distinguish right from wrong. However, their successors degenerated into sophistry, prioritizing rhetorical flourish over substance.

Legalist exponents such as Shen Dao, Li Kui, Han Fei, and Shang Yang emphasized strict laws to punish evil and reward good, using legal codes to regulate society. But later Legalists completely abandoned benevolence and righteousness, relying solely on harsh punishments that fostered a culture of cruelty and ingratitude.

Mohist philosophers like Yi Yi, Mozi, and Qin Guli promoted frugality, universal love, respect for the worthy, and reverence for spirits, while opposing extravagance in burials and warfare. Yet Mohist teachings proved too austere and rigid for long-term adherence.

The School of Diplomacy, represented by strategists like Pang Xuan, Su Qin, and Zhang Yi, excelled in diplomatic tactics. They analyzed interstate dynamics to prevent conflicts and adapted flexibly to resolve crises. However, later practitioners indulged in flashy but insubstantial deception, betraying principles of integrity.

(Note: The phrase "Quezi Quezi ming zi wo" appears to be a textual redundancy. According to Records of the Han Dynasty: Treatise on Arts and Letters, Quezi was a native of Qi skilled in military strategy. The original text has been preserved without alteration.)

This passage examines the characteristics and relative merits of various philosophical schools. It begins with the Eclectics (Zajia), represented by figures like Kong Jia, Wei Liao, Shi Jiao, and Huai Yi, who synthesized Yin-Yang theory with the Dao-De (Way-Virtue) as their foundation while incorporating elements from Confucianism, Mohism, Logicians, Legalism, Political Strategists, and Agriculturalists without rigid adherence to any single doctrine. However, superficial Eclectic thought becomes disorganized, lacking a core philosophy.

Next discussed is the Agriculturalist school (Nongjia), championed by Shennong, Yelao, Zai Shi, and Fan Sheng, which advocated vigorously developing agriculture—reclaiming wastelands, cultivating diverse crops—to fill state granaries and ensure household surpluses. They believed ritual propriety would naturally flourish under such conditions. Yet shallow Agriculturalist views that urged rulers to till fields alongside commoners were criticized for disrupting social hierarchy and the ruler-minister distinction.

The author analyzes these nine major schools (referring to the above traditions), noting that despite differences in depth, varying degrees of elaboration, and even contradictory viewpoints, each contains wisdom for governance. Like the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) that mutually restrain yet generate one another, or the four seasons that oppose yet complete the year; like the Zi and Mian rivers flowing from separate sources but merging in the sea; like the gong and shang musical notes differing yet creating harmony; like the contrasting virtues of Boyi and Liuxia Hui both exemplifying worthiness; like two recluses with divergent conduct both embodying humaneness.

The Daoist school (centered on the Dao) takes the profound "transformation through Wuwei (non-action)" as fundamental, while Confucianism (founded by Confucius) makes moral instruction its guiding principle. Among the nine traditions, these two schools' teachings hold greatest significance. Daoism teaches through Wuwei (acting in accordance with nature), Confucianism through the Six Arts (rites, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, mathematics). Wuwei emphasizes clarity and stillness of mind, while the Six Arts prioritize ritual and music. Yet Confucian instruction alone breeds hypocrisy, while exclusive reliance on Daoist Wuwei invites disorder—for eras differ, requiring adaptable customs and teachings; ancient and modern circumstances demand distinct governance methods.

The conclusion observes: While Confucianism doesn't represent ultimate truth, it can guide society; though Daoism constitutes penetrating philosophy, its disregard for ritual makes rectifying abuses difficult. Therefore, wise rulers should prioritize ritual instruction, while hermits uphold Wuwei. Thus both undertakings succeed, preserving both achievement and reputation.