《劉子》Vol. 3

The eleventh chapter of the third volume of Liu Zi discusses the fundamental principle of valuing agriculture. Clothing and food are the foundation of people's survival, while the people themselves constitute the bedrock of the state. The people depend on food and clothing just as fish rely on water; the state depends on the people just as a person relies on their feet to walk. Without water, fish perish; without feet, a person cannot walk; and without its people, a state cannot be governed.

The ancient sage-kings understood this principle well, so they prioritized securing the people's food and clothing. The phrase "the auspicious signs of agriculture at dawn" refers to the first month's propitious day, when the yang qi (vital energy) is abundant, and the earth and plants begin to stir. On such a day (chosen as the first hai day of the month), the Son of Heaven personally performed the plowing ceremony in the eastern suburbs, while the empress gathered mulberry leaves in the northern suburbs (chosen as the first si day) to nurture silkworms. This was not because the state lacked skilled farmers, but to demonstrate the ruler's personal example; nor was it because the world lacked women skilled in sericulture, but to set a model through the empress's actions. Such practices not only honored the ancestral temples but also inspired the masses.

Shennong (the legendary progenitor of agriculture) left this teaching: If able-bodied men do not till the fields, the world will suffer hunger; if women of working age do not weave, the world will suffer cold. Thus, the Son of Heaven plowed the fields himself, and the empress wove cloth herself, setting an example for all under heaven. Without diligent farming, livelihood cannot be sustained; without industrious weaving, clothing cannot cover the body. Only when food and clothing are abundant will wrongdoing decrease, and peace prevail in the world. In such times, the wise have no need to display their cleverness, and the strong have no opportunity to flaunt their might.

Food and clothing are the root of people's livelihood, while intricate craftsmanship is merely the branch. Excessive pursuit of ornate decorations harms farming, and obsession with luxurious brocades disrupts women's work. Neglecting agriculture is the root of famine, and abandoning women's work is the beginning of cold. When the people suffer hunger and cold, attempting to prohibit theft is like scattering embers and expecting no fire, or stirring water and hoping for calm—utterly impossible.

Guanzi once said, "When people have enough food and clothing, they understand honor and shame; when granaries are full, they know propriety and ritual." Therefore, those who govern must prioritize agriculture and sericulture, reject extravagant adornments, treasure grain and cloth as true valuables, and regard pearls and jade as mere dirt. For pearls and jade are only for amusement, while grain and cloth serve real needs. Even if all the world's rubble were transformed into the He Shi jade, and all sand and stone into the Suihou pearls, in times of flood or drought, these treasures would still be useless as food.

The Liu Zi passage expounds on governance principles through two key dimensions: emphasizing the importance of grain reserves and elucidating how rulers should practice benevolent governance.

Regarding grain storage, the text employs vivid analogies: Jade cannot ward off cold, nor can pearls satisfy hunger—just as a painted Xishi (legendary beauty) brings no true delight, and carved peaches and plums remain inedible despite their lifelike appearance. Among clothing and food, grain is the fundamental necessity. When bitter cold strikes, thatch cannot substitute for fur coats; when households stand empty, wild grasses cannot serve as sustenance. Ancient sage-kings stored nine years' worth of grain against disasters. During Yao and Shun's reigns, with ten years of reserves, people survived nine years of floods and seven years of drought without starvation. Contemporary grain shortages stem from too many idlers—like crop-devouring pests (the ming eating seedling hearts, teng gnawing stems, mao consuming roots, and zei stripping leaves) whose momentary damage causes years of famine. When one farmer must feed a hundred, the harm exceeds that of locusts. Thus wise rulers teach people to follow agricultural seasons, encourage farming, reduce idleness, and lighten corvée labor. With full granaries, even wars or disasters cannot destabilize the nation.

The second part discusses compassionate rulership. Just as Heaven and Earth nurture all things through balanced Yin-Yang, rulers educate people through proper governance. Unseasonable cold and heat breed disease; erratic wind and rain ruin harvests; unjust punishments harm citizens; misguided decrees corrupt customs. Murky waters hold no fish, barren land grows no trees, and oppressive edicts deprive people of peace. Governing resembles playing the qin: overtightening the thick strings snaps the thin ones, rendering the instrument unplayable. This metaphor illustrates how balanced governance—neither too lax nor too harsh—maintains social harmony.

This passage expounds the principle that governance should be rooted in benevolence, using bodily and natural metaphors to illustrate the relationship between rulers and the people.

When feet suffer cold, the heart is harmed; when the people endure hardship, the state is damaged. Warm feet bring calm to the heart, just as contented people bring peace to the nation. Therefore, those skilled in governance must take benevolence as their foundation, not prioritize harsh punishments. They should lighten penalties to preserve lives, reduce corvée labor to let the people recuperate, lessen taxes without exhausting their resources, and avoid disrupting farming seasons so the people may prosper. When households are well-provided, the state achieves wealth and stability.

The bond between people and ruler resembles that between children and parents. Never has there been a case where parents prospered while their children suffered poverty, or parents were impoverished while their children flourished. Thus, the people's prosperity isn't merely personal abundance—it constitutes the nation's wealth; their hardship isn't just individual suffering—it becomes the state's affliction. As You Ruo (a disciple of Confucius) observed: "When the people have enough, how could the ruler be lacking? When the people lack, how could the ruler have enough?"

The sage-kings of antiquity governed the world by harmonizing with heaven's timing above and nurturing all creatures below. They followed natural rhythms: casting no nets before otters began fishing, hunting no game before wolves began their chase, setting no snares before hawks took their prey, and felling no trees before frost and dew touched them. Plants possess life without awareness; beasts have awareness without wisdom—yet the sage-kings extended benevolence even to these. How much more should this apply to conscious, intelligent humans?

Therefore, rulers should embody spring's generosity and rain's nourishment. When virtue nurtures all beings, the people willingly devote themselves unto death. Long ago, King Tai of Zhou (grandfather of King Wen) implemented benevolent governance in Bin: markets formed in the first year, towns in the second, and by the third it grew into a capital. Conversely, the ruler of Susa Kingdom, lacking sufficient benevolence, saw his people defect to Emperor Shun. Benevolence binds hearts more firmly than metal or stone—while metal may melt, human loyalty won't waver. The ruler is like soil, the people like vegetation: none have heard of fertile earth yielding barren plants, or benevolent rulers presiding over unprosperous people.

This excerpt from Chapter 13 ("On Transformation") of The Masters of Huainan emphasizes that benevolent governance operates like earth nourishing plants—when rulers embody kindness, the people naturally follow. This constitutes governance's most fundamental truth.

What the ruler favors, the people will surely follow. Never has there been a case where the ruler's genuine preference failed to attract popular emulation. Where the ruler's desires lie, there the people's actions will turn. The people's compliance with their sovereign is as natural as grass bending with the wind or water taking the shape of its vessel.

The ruler's virtue (De) functions like the wind and the container, while the people's response resembles grass and water. Grass sways with the wind—when the wind blows east, the grass leans east; when it blows west, the grass inclines west. Water in a vessel becomes square when contained in a square vessel, round when held in a round one. Subordinates mirror their superiors' conduct as faithfully as shadows follow forms and echoes answer sounds.

The Book of Odes states "How easy it is to lead people," precisely because people naturally follow their superiors' preferences. History provides abundant examples: When Duke Huan of Qi favored purple garments, the entire state abandoned normal colors. When Duke Wen of Jin rejected lambskin robes, his ministers all switched to sheepskin. Duke Ai of Lu's fondness for Confucian-style clothing made it the national fashion, while King Wuling of Zhao's preference for quèhé crowns turned them into universal headwear. Purple isn't a primary color, sheepskin lacks elegance, Confucian robes weren't everyday wear, and quèhé crowns weren't standard attire—yet people competed to imitate them simply because their rulers favored these.

King Ling of Chu admired slender waists, causing his court ladies to starve themselves, some to death. King Goujian of Yue valued martial spirit—when he saw a frog puffing up defiantly against a chariot wheel, he dismounted to salute it. Warriors emulated this martial reverence, ultimately enabling Yue to conquer Wu. Though life is humanity's most cherished possession and death universally feared, the people disregarded life and scorned death—all through following their rulers' preferences.

In the eras of Yao and Shun, every household deserved rewards; under Jie and Zhou, each home merited punishment. This wasn't because Yao and Shun's subjects were born virtuous nor Jie and Zhou's people inherently wicked—it resulted entirely from transformative influence. Therefore, wise rulers carefully select their preferences to rectify customs, establishing exemplary models to shape posterity. Occasionally, when superiors promote transformation, subordinates may not respond immediately; when rulers display preferences, people may not follow at once. Yet ultimately, the populace will align with their sovereign's guidance.

The text from Master Liu primarily discusses the diversity and complexity of worldly affairs, emphasizing that all things cannot be judged by a single standard.

The author illustrates this with examples: Even during the sage reign of Emperor Yao, there were still the Four Villains causing chaos; under the tyrannical rule of King Zhou of Shang, three virtuous ministers maintained their integrity. Emperor Wen of Han advocated frugality, yet the people indulged in extravagance; while Duke Jing of Qi lived lavishly, his prime minister Yan Ying remained simple and austere. This is akin to how winter, though belonging to Yin, can sometimes be unseasonably hot (just as Mount Xiaoqiu spontaneously ignites in spring), or how summer, though belonging to Yang, can occasionally see frost and snow—if even the Yin and Yang of heaven and earth cannot remain entirely uniform, how much more so must this be true when sages govern the people?

Using measuring instruments as a metaphor: Even the most precise scales have minute discrepancies, and the fairest measurements still contain slight deviations. When assessing a ruler's governance, one must look at the broader picture: During the reigns of Yao and Shun, the world was largely well-ordered, and the misdeeds of a few did not negate this; under King Zhou, the world was in chaos, and the virtue of a few did not alter that reality. Just as water’s nature is cold, yet the hot springs of Huayang (in southern Liangzhou) are warm; or as fire’s nature is hot, yet the flames of Mount Xiaoqiu are cool. When fierce winds churn the waves, the sea may appear calm from a distance—these are all examples of observing things by grasping their essential nature.

Chapter 14, The Art of Governance, points out that the methods of ruling are the core instruments of a sovereign. "Art" (shu) refers to the internal, adaptive principles of governance, while "law" (fa) constitutes the external, publicly proclaimed statutes. A ruler employs shu to educate the people, much as heaven and earth nourish all things with primal Qi (qi) without revealing their workings. True statecraft should remain profound and concealed, while laws must be clearly and openly established. Here, shu denotes the ruler's flexible governance strategies, and fa refers to the codified rules and regulations.

This passage discusses the need for flexible application of laws in governance, rather than rigid adherence to outdated systems. Wise judgment is crucial—when social customs become frivolous, people develop contentious hearts. Once human hearts turn deceitful and cunning, laws must be established to regulate behavior. The term "correction" here means setting people right; establishing legal edicts to educate the masses is about guiding them onto the proper path.

Those who establish states and govern the people, even if skilled in administration, cannot abandon laws to achieve order. Just as the Divine Farmer (Shennong, legendary ancient ruler) governed without punishments yet the people remained virtuous, truly skilled rulers cannot discard laws to manage their subjects. When Emperor Shun (ancient sage-king) performed a ritual dance holding shield and axe, the rebellious Miao tribes submitted—originally defiant, the Miao people naturally surrendered after seventy days of witnessing Shun's armed dance between palace steps (as recorded in the Book of Documents).

Military commanders cannot lay down arms to subdue enemies, just as lawmakers resemble expert charioteers: they must understand their horses' strength, assess road conditions, and adjust reins according to circumstances to ascend slopes and navigate dangers without overturning. Even on treacherous paths, they avoid destruction. The ruler is the charioteer, laws are the reins, the people are the horses, and governance means holding the reins firmly. As charioteers keep horses in the tracks, wise lawmakers keep people following the Dao of governance. Ill-fitted reins make horses bolt; outdated laws make people defy reason.

Thus enlightened rulers devote themselves to upholding laws while adapting to their times. Whatever benefits the people need not imitate antiquity; whatever harms affairs should not cling to tradition. The Xia and Shang dynasties declined because they refused reform, while the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou) flourished precisely by breaking with precedent. Yao and Shun governed differently yet their virtue covered all under heaven; Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou ruled distinctively yet their reputations shine through history. Clearly, laws must evolve with the times—this isn't unique to any single era.

Today's legalists drown in ancient statutes while Confucian scholars cling to old rites, failing to understand that changing circumstances demand legal evolution. Such people may enforce existing laws and implement teachings, but cannot discuss legislative principles. Hence the wise create laws while fools are constrained by them; the worthy reform rites while the mediocre are bound by tradition. Those shackled to laws cannot discuss great affairs; true lawmakers comprehend the Dao of things. To impose one era's laws on a hundred generations is like wearing one robe for all seasons, or prescribing one remedy for every disease. To regulate ever-shifting customs with transient rites resembles the man from Song who carved his boat to mark a lost sword—after dropping his blade overboard, he notched the gunwale, waiting until docking to retrieve it by the mark, inevitably failing.

The story of "Waiting by a Stump for More Hares" tells of a hunter who saw a frightened hare crash into a tree stump and die, only for a passerby to pick it up. From then on, the hunter spent all day guarding that stump, hoping another hare would meet the same fate. Establishing ritual institutions is like this stump—it's merely a means of governance, not the fundamental principle. While rituals indeed serve as important foundations for moral transformation, true transformation depends on aligning with the times; the essence of governing lies in adapting to worldly conditions. Never has a state been well-governed without conforming to its era, nor moral transformation achieved without grounding in reality.

In governing the people and directing subordinates, no principle is more crucial than law; in establishing institutions and implementing moral transformation, no method is more effective than rewards and punishments. Rewards and punishments are like the sharp tools of the state, the levers that restrain people. Just as celestial bodies follow their natural patterns—the sun completing its cycle in 365 and a quarter days to form a year, with the sun moving slowly to circle the heavens annually and the moon moving swiftly to do so monthly—so too does the state use laws and moral teachings to govern. Like celestial movements determining seasonal changes, when rulers implement decrees, order naturally arises among the people.

Just as celestial phenomena bring spring before autumn, so should laws implement rewards before punishments. Like warm spring breezes prompting new buds while chilly autumn dew withers lush leaves, public rewards for the virtuous encourage goodness, while clear punishments for wrongdoers deter wickedness. Those skilled in rewarding harness people's preferences to encourage virtue; those adept at punishing utilize people's aversions to prohibit vice. Thus, even modest rewards can inspire goodness, and light punishments can stop wrongdoing. Rewarding one person can bring joy to all under heaven; punishing one can instill fear in all—thereby achieving great order through small means.

An excellent charioteer understands when horses are hungry or full, mastering their pace so that whips become unnecessary even for thousand-mile journeys. Yet whips shouldn't be discarded entirely, for horses may still bolt. Similarly, sages govern by using ranks and rewards to encourage virtue and benevolent teachings to nurture the people, achieving peace without punishments. Yet punishments cannot be entirely abolished, for people may still act recklessly. Thus, while rewards encourage goodness, punishments remain indispensable; while punishments curb evil, rewards cannot be neglected. Only when both are properly balanced can the Dao of governance be established. Therefore, when rulers implement rewards and punishments, they must align them with the timeliness of celestial phenomena.

This passage discusses how to guide people toward goodness through rewards and punishments. Establishing modest incentives can encourage virtuous conduct, while setting light deterrents can restrain wrongdoing—how much more effective would substantial rewards and strong authority be in governing the people? Thus, rewards must be trustworthy, and punishments must be clear. If rewards lack appeal, even when given, they will fail to motivate; if punishments lack severity, even when enforced, they will not stop evil. Failing to encourage virtue and deter vice leads to the inversion of good and evil. Therefore, a wise ruler rewards good and punishes evil not for personal gain but for the sake of the state. Actions that benefit oneself but harm the state are not rewarded, while actions that go against personal wishes but benefit the state are not punished. Punishment must target the guilty, and rewards must be given to the deserving. If rewards and punishments are clearly distinguished, the people will follow willingly, like a boat flowing with the river or a cart following the road—no goal will be unattainable, no destination unreachable.

Chapter 16 explores the relationship between name (名) and reality (实). Language is used to clarify principles, and principles are the root of language; names are used to define things, and things are the source of names. If there are principles but no language to express them, the principles remain obscure; if there are things but no names to identify them, the things remain indistinguishable. Principles are illuminated through language, yet language is not the principle itself; things are discerned through names, yet names are not the things themselves. Nowadays, some people trust language but discard principles, failing to truly grasp the principles; they believe in names but neglect reality, failing to truly understand the things. Thus, the wise investigate principles by examining language, not overlooking principles while fixating on words; they pursue reality by grasping names, not abandoning reality while clinging to labels. In this way, both language and principles become clear, and both names and reality are correctly aligned.

Popular sayings among people often exaggerate trivial matters into major events or mistake the wrong for the right. The more widespread the rumor, the further it strays from the truth; the more false the name, the more it contradicts reality. This is as absurd as claiming a dog resembles a human or white resembles black. To say a dog resembles a human or white resembles black is utterly illogical. Yet, by analogy, if one says a dog resembles an ape, an ape resembles a human, then the dog resembles a human; if white resembles pale yellow, pale yellow resembles yellow, yellow resembles red, red resembles purple, purple resembles blue, and blue resembles black, then white becomes black. When the Yellow Emperor (Xuanyuan) governed the land, he appointed feudal lords to oversee the four directions, earning him the epithet "Four Directions"—yet people later spread the tale that he had four faces, a clear exaggeration.

The Book of Master Liu records several intriguing stories about cognitive biases:

The "One-Legged Kui" anecdote: Duke Ai of Lu once asked Confucius whether it was true that Kui, the legendary music master under Emperor Shun, had only one leg. Confucius explained that Kui was so skilled in musical theory (the six pitch standards and eight sounds) that he alone was sufficient to oversee music—it didn't mean he literally had one leg. However, Zhuangzi mentions that Kui did indeed have only one foot, walking with an unsteady gait.

The Zhou people's embarrassing mistake: The people of Zhou highly valued uncarved jade (jade pu). A swindler once disguised a dead rat as jade pu, wrapping it in multicolored silk and presenting it in an ornate box. Everyone believed it was genuine precious jade until the jade expert Bian He examined it and exposed the dead rat. The Zhou people were so ashamed they threw away both the fake and the expensive box.

The Chu people's mistaken phoenix: Some Chu people caught a colorful pheasant, mistaking it for a phoenix they planned to present to their ruler. Along the way, they saw many such birds in the fields and, after being corrected, realized it was just an ordinary pheasant. They fled home in embarrassment.

The wisdom of Old Fool: A sage living in Fool Valley called himself Old Fool (Yu Gong). At first people genuinely thought him foolish, but later discovered his true wisdom.

Huang Gong's marital misunderstanding: Huang Gong had a beautiful daughter who remained unmarried at thirty. Whenever suitors came, he modestly claimed she was unattractive. Over time, everyone believed this until she was chosen as a royal consort, revealing her true beauty.

The Lu clothing confusion: People of Lu favored wide-sleeved robes (fengye garments), originally worn by scholars and skilled artisans. When Duke Ai of Lu saw Confucius dressed differently from both officials and commoners, he mistakenly thought this was distinctive Confucian attire.

Mr. Dongguo's fake performance: The yu was a 36-pipe instrument similar to a sheng. King Xuan of Qi loved yu music and maintained three thousand musicians. Mr. Dongguo couldn't play at all but pretended among them—this became the origin of the idiom "passing oneself off as one of the players in an ensemble" (lanyuchongshu).

These stories collectively illustrate how people are often misled by appearances: some due to limited knowledge (like mistaking the pheasant), others deceived intentionally (like the fake jade), and some from excessive modesty causing misunderstanding (like Huang Gong's daughter).

This passage illustrates a principle through several anecdotes: people often believe rumors without verifying the facts, leading to mismatches between reputation and reality where truth becomes indistinguishable from falsehood.

The first story tells of Dongguo Xiansheng, who pretended to play the yu (an ancient musical instrument) despite lacking skill, eventually fleeing in shame. This shows how reputation and actual ability may be completely mismatched.

Several examples of confused names and realities follow:

• "Wild Elder" (yě zhàngrén), originally a medicinal herb name, was mistaken for an old farmer
• "Riverside Maiden" (héshàng chànǚ, where chànǚ refers to cinnabar) was misunderstood as an ordinary woman
• "Yao's Syrup" (yáo jiāng, tree sap) and "Yu's Provisions" (yǔ liáng, red clay), both medicinal materials, were taken for ordinary food
• "Dragon Liver" and "Ox Knees," names of medicinal herbs, were wrongly assumed to be animal parts

Two famous cases of misinformation are recounted:

A Song state man who dug a well said he "gained a person" (meaning he saved labor by not needing to fetch water), but this was misinterpreted as digging a living person from the earth. In Lu state, a history reader mistook the characters "jǐhài" (heavenly stem and earthly branch) for "three pigs" (sān shǐ), even inventing an explanation about "pigs crossing a river," until Confucius' disciple Zixia verified it as a copying error.

These examples all demonstrate how worldly people frequently fail to verify names against facts, readily believing rumors and accepting plausible falsehoods as truth. The author reminds us to examine names and realities carefully, avoiding deception by false rumors.

Foxes and raccoon dogs are often confused due to their similar names. In reality, foxes are wild canines while raccoon dogs are wild felines - fundamentally different animals.

There exists another peculiar creature called the Qiongqiong and Juxu, which are actually the same animal. This creature inhabits the Yanmen Mountain region - when its front legs are longer, it's called Qiongqiong; when its hind legs are longer, it's called Juxu. When encountering humans, the Juxu would carry the Qiongqiong on its back to escape. Because describing this proved too cumbersome, people began treating them as two distinct species.

Though this resulted in two names, it distorted the truth. Without careful examination of terminology and thorough observation of forms, one easily falls into such errors. Therefore, the ancients placed great emphasis on nominal accuracy, insisting on both meticulous linguistic analysis and profound understanding of essential nature. Only then could names avoid distorting reality and truth remain unobscured by labels. This principle is called "rectification of names" (establishing accurate name-reality correspondence).

The third volume of "Master Liu's Writings" specifically discusses the importance of proper name-reality relationships.