《劉子》Vol. 5

The text Liu Zi states that all living beings between heaven and earth require external support to thrive and develop. Just as wild geese rely on autumn winds to soar effortlessly, the legendary flying serpent Tengshe seeks to ascend the clouds by riding spring mists, and the symbiotic creature Juéshǔ depends on Qióngqióng (another symbiotic animal) to chase the sun.

In the Western regions, there exists a peculiar creature: its front resembles a rat, while its rear resembles a Qióng. When running, the rat carries the Qióng on its back, and the Qióng carries the rat. This mutual dependence arises because the rat cannot reach high-altitude food and needs the Qióng’s assistance. Even today, on the Xiawu Mountain in Guangwu County of Yanmen, one can still see flying insects as large as rabbits carrying each other on their backs—these are called Juéshǔ.

Vines entwined around green pines can grow tall enough to touch the clouds. Birds, beasts, insects, and plants all understand how to harness wind and mist, or cling to higher things to achieve their goals—how much more should humans do the same? If a person aligns with the wise, they may attain success and renown; if they attach themselves to the foolish, they risk ruin and disgrace.

At dawn, when sunlight first appears, the eyes can discern distant wisps of smoke; at year’s end, the tumbleweed soars straight into the sky with the wind. These phenomena occur because they rely on sunlight and wind currents. If one ties a feather to an iron weight and casts it into a river, it will inevitably sink into the mud—not because the feather itself is heavy, but because what it clings to will drag it down. Yet place a stone on a boat, and it will ride the waves—not because the stone has become lighter, but because it now has the boat’s support.

A gadfly cannot fly more than a hundred steps on its own, but if it clings to a phoenix’s tail, it can traverse thousands of miles. The legendary sprinter Lou Ji (known for his speed), if mounted on a lame horse, could not cover thirty li in a day. Thus, with proper support, even heavy stones can float and short wings can fly; with improper attachment, even light feathers will sink and swift legs slow down. Like a swallow nesting on a curtain—no matter how exquisitely it patches the nest with mud, it will never be a lasting refuge.

This passage explores the inscrutability of the human heart through natural metaphors. It begins with examples of bird nests and fish eggs: the exquisite vessels made by potters may appear sturdy, yet shatter when military banners flutter during victory marches; the nest woven by wrens with hair-thin threads on reeds—so delicate that even skilled seamstresses couldn't replicate it—collapses when a breeze snaps the reed, dashing the eggs. This illustrates that when foundations are fragile, even the most ingenious structures cannot withstand trials. Thus birds choose sturdy trees to build nests, and fish select deep pools to dwell—this is the wisdom of survival.

The text then reveals how human hearts are harder to fathom than natural phenomena: the Yin-Yang of heaven and earth can be calculated through calendars (the "two modes" refer to heaven-earth, "regulations" mean calendars), the Three Bonds and Five Constants can be observed through behavior, thunder can be mimicked with bells and drums, wind and rain changes can be expressed through musical tones. But the human heart hides within the body, emotions buried deep, impossible to measure by calculation. While heaven follows the predictable rhythms of four seasons and day-night cycles, human exteriors and interiors often contradict—some appear gentle while inwardly resolute, seemingly honest yet impulsive in action. People's joys and sorrows may not reflect true feelings; smiles don't necessarily mean happiness, nor do tears always stem from grief.

The passage particularly emphasizes: though the sun illuminates all things in heaven, its light cannot penetrate human hearts; we observe external displays but struggle to discern inner authenticity. Just as visible facial stains bring shame, few examine the stains within their minds. Because faces are exposed while thoughts remain concealed, people become adept at disguising outward emotions. This text profoundly exposes the complex duality of human nature—where appearances and realities seldom align.

This passage recounts the story of Confucius and Shaozheng Mao, illustrating the difficulty in discerning true worth from falsehood and wisdom from deceit.

Shaozheng Mao was a scholar in the state of Lu, a contemporary of Confucius. Outwardly, he appeared talented, skilled in debate, and eloquent in speech, but in truth, he harbored deceitful intentions. Confucius’ disciples had thrice filled his school only to leave en masse—except for Yan Hui, who remained steadfast because he truly understood Confucius’ sage-like virtue (De). The other disciples abandoned Confucius to follow Shaozheng Mao, failing to recognize Confucius’ wisdom and unable to see through Shaozheng Mao’s treachery.

Zigong once asked Confucius, "Shaozheng Mao is a renowned scholar in Lu—why did you prioritize his execution when you took office?" Confucius replied, "This is beyond your understanding." He explained that Shaozheng Mao possessed five traits of deceit: a crooked mind, aberrant conduct, hypocritical speech, vast knowledge misapplied, and a talent for justifying wrongdoing. These traits allowed him to deceive the masses—even someone as intelligent as Zigong struggled to see through him.

This demonstrates how deceit and virtue, fraud and integrity, sophistry and wisdom, and foolishness and righteousness often appear similar on the surface, much like how wild ginseng can be mistaken for true ginseng, or how false fennel resembles true lovage. People frequently overestimate themselves while underestimating others, making objective judgment even harder. Just as the ugly woman Momu saw her reflection in a well and believed herself more beautiful than Xi Shi, or Duke Huan of Qi boasted that his virtue surpassed that of Yao and Shun, self-delusion clouds perception. Zigong, after his first year studying under Confucius, believed himself superior to his teacher; in the second year, he thought them equals; only by the third year did he realize how far he fell short. If even a talent like Zigong required three years to grasp Confucius’ greatness, how much harder must it be for ordinary people?

Finally, when Confucius served as Minister of Justice in Lu, he recognized Shaozheng Mao’s plotting rebellion and advised Duke Ding of Lu to eliminate him, knowing that Shaozheng Mao’s courage and cunning posed a threat to the state. This exemplifies Confucius’ profound insight into human nature.

The core message is this: human hearts are inscrutable, and truth is hard to distinguish. Only the wisest discernment can separate the worthy from the unworthy. Ordinary people are easily misled by appearances; only through humility, study, and prolonged observation can one perceive reality clearly.

Fate has its favorable and adverse turns, just as opportunity brings both obstruction and smooth passage. Adversity and prosperity transform into each other, yet obstruction and smooth passage remain fundamentally distinct.

Some stride confidently when fortune smiles, yet this does not necessarily indicate superior wisdom; others stumble in adversity, yet this hardly proves them dull or incapable. Why is this so? Because favorable or adverse conditions are determined by fate, while obstruction or smooth passage depends on circumstance. When fate reaches its nadir, even remarkable talents may remain buried; when circumstance turns favorable, previous blockages suddenly clear. Whether one prospers is not wholly within personal control, just as encountering obstacles cannot be avoided through wisdom alone.

Consider shouting within a cave—the echo carries but a few zhang; yet a cry carried by the wind may travel a hundred li. Gazing skyward from a well reveals only a small circle of heaven, while surveying from a mountain peak unveils horizons where clouds meet mist. When confined in such narrow spaces, one does not suddenly become deaf or blind—the limitations come from the constrained environment. But when riding favorable winds to great heights, even without the thunderous voice of Meng Ben (ancient strongman) or the piercing sight of Li Lou (legendary sharp-eyed figure), one's voice carries far and vision extends wide—such is the power of open circumstance.

Zhu Maichen once sang while gathering firewood to stave off hunger; Wang Zhang wept wrapped in oxhide against the cold night; Su Qin pierced his thigh with an awl to stay awake studying; Ban Chao (later enfeoffed as Marquis Dingyuan) sighed while holding his writing brush in youth. In their adversity, these four men appeared haggard and dejected, their speech as coarse as rubble, their behavior unrestrained. Anxiety etched their gaunt frames—their sighs rumbled like thunder, their breath surged like clouds. They resembled a thousand-li steed yoked to a salt cart or a nimble ape caged—not lacking the capacity for great deeds, but having no arena to demonstrate it. How does this differ from expecting one's voice to carry far from a cave or hoping for wide vistas from the bottom of a well?

Yet when their time came: Zhu Maichen (once a poor woodcutter) returned home in silken robes as Governor of Kuaiji; Wang Zhang (who once wept in oxhide) rose to become Capital Minister; Su Qin (disciple of Guiguzi alongside Zhang Yi) wore the seals of six states in his anti-Qin alliance; Ban Chao abandoned his brush to achieve military glory in the Western Regions. These transformations were all inevitable products of their changing circumstances.

This passage recounts the dramatic reversals of fortune experienced by two historical figures, prompting profound philosophical reflections.

First is the story of Su Qin: After spending three years traveling to persuade the six warring states, he exhausted his resources without success. Upon returning home, even his family shunned him—his sister-in-law refused to cook for him, his wife wouldn't leave her loom, and his parents and siblings ignored him. He then secluded himself to intensively study The Secret Teachings of Tai Gong (an ancient military treatise). Months later, he reemerged to assist the State of Zhao, eventually becoming its prime minister. At that time, the six states were weak and frequently threatened by Qin. Su Qin convinced them to form a "Vertical Alliance" against Qin, maintaining peace for twenty years. But after his death, Zhang Yi's "Horizontal Alliance" strategy dismantled this coalition, ultimately leading to Qin's unification of China. Emperor Qin Shi Huang burned books and buried scholars alive, defying divine will—the Qin dynasty collapsed by its third ruler Ziying, who surrendered to Emperor Gaozu of Han.

Next is Ban Chao's experience: In his youth, he lived in poverty, eking out a living as a scribe. Later he abandoned his writing brush to join the military, achieving great merit in the Western Regions and being enfeoffed as Marquis of Dingyuan. Yet when he returned in glory thirty years later, the young man had become white-haired.

The author reflects: When successful, a person shines with vigor, their every word and deed becoming exemplary. Riding fine steeds in light furs, they soar like geese riding the wind or giant fish swimming the open seas. But how can the same person experience such extremes? It's not that they were foolish before and wise now, nor ugly then and handsome today—the key lies in whether opportunity is obstructed or flowing. Just as water's nature is clarity, it requires movement to remain pure.

This passage employs the metaphor of water and human beings to illustrate the profound impact of "opportunity" on human life.

When water is dammed up, it stagnates and turns foul; when allowed to flow freely according to the terrain, even decaying corpses won't contaminate it. This difference doesn't stem from water's inherent nature, but from whether it circulates or remains blocked. Human success resembles water's free flow—virtue (De) is like a clear spring that remains unpolluted even by dust. Thus we see how vastly different the paths of opportunity and obstruction are, just as radiant prosperity differs from withered despair.

Chapter 24 discusses the crucial importance of opportunity. Whether one is worthy depends on innate nature, but encountering favorable circumstances is a matter of destiny. Nature manifests in individuals, making discernment of wisdom and foolishness possible; destiny is heaven-determined, making success or failure unpredictable. When destiny is obscure, danger doesn't necessarily bring disaster, nor does foolishness inevitably lead to hardship; when destiny is unfavorable, comfort may not bring blessings, nor can worthiness guarantee prominence. Thus identical hardships yield different outcomes, and equal virtue meets different circumstances—all due to varying opportunities.

Though spring sunshine bathes all, hermits may not enjoy it; though autumn frost blankets the earth, sheltered spots remain unharmed—these are matters of opportunity. The text provides examples: When Marquis Zhao of Han was drunk, the robe-keeper who covered him was punished for overstepping duties; when a Wei charioteer discovered steering errors and shouted warnings, he was rewarded for loyalty. Both acted from concern, yet one was punished while the other rewarded—such is the difference opportunity makes.

Two contrasting stories follow: An owl dropping a rotten rat caused a knight-errant to mistakenly believe the Yu family intended insult, leading to their massacre; when Lord Zhu raged, Shegu escaped punishment because other matters intervened. These demonstrate how identical situations yield opposite outcomes through different opportunities.

This story illustrates how different rulers determine entirely different fates for their subjects. The ruler of Zhu was temperamental—seeing a basin of water by his gate, he mistakenly assumed his attendant Shegu had urinated there. Without investigation, he had Shegu beaten to death, though the attendant was completely innocent of the alleged offense.

Similarly, reclusive scholars of equal virtue met drastically different ends: Hua Shi, a hermit in Qi who withdrew to the mountains, was executed by Jiang Ziya (Grand Duke of Qi), while Duan Gammu of Wei, who likewise refused official service, was revered by Marquis Wen of Wei. The Marquis personally visited Duan Gammu, declaring: "Though my territories are vast, my De (Virtue) falls short of Duan Gammu's; though my wealth is abundant, my righteousness cannot match his. Land and riches pale before De and moral principle." He thereafter treated Duan as his teacher. When Qin later contemplated invading Wei, its ministers dissuaded the plan, arguing that Wei's possession of such a virtuous man as Duan Gammu—and Marquis Wen's demonstrated respect for worthies—made any attack morally indefensible. Qin thus abandoned its plans.

Jiang Ziya's wisdom was no less than Marquis Wen's, nor was Duan Gammu's virtue superior to Hua Shi's. That one was killed while the other was honored depended entirely on their respective rulers. Similarly, Dong Zhongshu—a scholar of vast learning and impeccable character—only rose to the position of Grand Master of the Palace, while Tian Qianqiu, despite lacking exceptional talent, became Chancellor merely for offering timely advice.

In Emperor Wu of Han's later years, Jiang Chong falsely accused the crown prince of using witchcraft to curse the emperor. Tian Qianqiu (then an eighty-year-old village elder) defended the prince, arguing the accusation was impossible and demanding Jiang Chong's interrogation. The prince consequently mobilized troops to execute Jiang Chong. These accounts demonstrate how one's fortune hinges upon encountering enlightened rulership.

This passage presents two contrasting stories that reveal the relationship between destiny and personal character.

First comes the tragedy during Emperor Wu of Han's reign: The sorcerer Jiang Chong falsely accused Crown Prince Liu Ju of plotting rebellion through witchcraft. When the emperor, staying at Ganquan Palace, received Chancellor Liu Qumao's report that the prince had killed Jiang Chong and rebelled, he immediately dispatched troops to suppress the uprising. Forced to defend himself, the crown prince raised an army but was defeated in Chang'an and fled. Tian Qianqiu submitted a memorial pleading the prince's innocence, showing he'd been framed by villains. By the time Emperor Wu realized the truth and sent men to find him, the prince had already hanged himself. The remorseful emperor later built the Longing-for-the-Son Palace.

Next is the story of an ugly woman from Qi with a goiter: When the King of Qi traveled through the countryside, all mulberry-picking girls rushed to see him—except her, who kept working diligently. Asked why, she explained she was following her parents' teaching to focus on her task. Impressed by her virtue, the king offered her a ride to his palace, but she modestly declined, saying proper women shouldn't act frivolously. Later when the king formally married her, palace concubines mocked her appearance, yet she ultimately became his favorite.

These tales illustrate: Meeting an enlightened ruler depends on fate (遇不遇命也), while being virtuous depends on nature (贤不贤性也). Complaining about lacking intelligence misunderstands one's nature; lamenting unrecognized talent ignores destiny. Those truly attuned to heaven's will neither fear adversity nor resent poverty.

The conclusion clarifies: Ming (命, destiny) is life's foundation, while xiang (相, outward manifestation) assists its fulfillment. Though invisible, ming determines essence; though visible, xiang merely reflects appearance. Everyone carries innate destiny—the key lies in cultivating one's nature and aligning with heaven's decree.

This passage discusses ancient theories of physiognomy and destiny, asserting that a person's fate—including their wisdom or foolishness, nobility or baseness, lifespan, and fortunes or misfortunes—are all predetermined by heavenly mandate at the moment of conception and formation. The text cites numerous legendary birth stories of ancient sages and their extraordinary physical features, interpreting these as auspicious signs bestowed by heaven.

It explains that if, at conception, one resonates with the essence of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) or the Three Lights (sun, moon, stars), or encounters auspicious omens like dragon traces, propitious clouds, or extraordinary dreams, they are destined to become extraordinary individuals. For example, Fuxi was conceived when his mother Huaxu stepped on a giant's footprint; Nüwa was born after her mother sensed the radiance of the Yaoguang star piercing the sun; Yao's mother Qingdu conceived after encountering a red dragon; Shun's mother Wodeng became pregnant upon seeing a great rainbow; and Yu's mother Xiuji conceived after witnessing a shooting star. The births of these sages were all accompanied by celestial phenomena.

The author also enumerates the distinctive physical traits of these sages: Fuxi had a sun-like protuberance on his forehead; the Yellow Emperor's brow ridges were as prominent as a dragon's; Emperor Ku had exceptionally broad shoulders; Yao's eyebrows displayed eight colors; Shun possessed double pupils; Yu had three ear openings; Tang of Shang had double elbows; King Wen of Zhou had four nipples; and Confucius' head was concave, resembling an upturned roof. These were all considered extraordinary features granted by heaven.

However, the author notes that the same physical traits could lead to vastly different destinies in different individuals. For instance, Shun, Xiang Yu, and Wang Mang all had double pupils, yet their fates diverged dramatically; Yu the Great and King Goujian of Yue both had long necks and bird-like mouths, but their outcomes were entirely different. This suggests that while physiognomic signs may indicate destiny, the final outcome still depends on one's cultivation of virtue (De) and personal conduct.

The passage further compares the discernment of human destiny to the expertise of famous sword appraisers like Feng Huzi, who could identify precious blades, or horse masters like Bole, who recognized fine steeds. A true master of physiognomy can judge a person's inner worth—whether wise or foolish, noble or base—by observing external features such as musculature, bone structure, voice, and complexion. However, such profound knowledge of physiognomy is not easily attained by ordinary people.

This passage illustrates the relationship between human destiny and facial features through various historical anecdotes:

Just as a poor-quality horse cannot be considered a thousand-mile steed even if it has one strand of hair from such a horse; or how Yu the Great, despite having a long neck and beak-like mouth, couldn't be called a snake any more than a dragon could be mistaken for one due to its serpentine scales - ordinary people too each possess distinguishing features that reveal their fate.

When Duke Gu of Lu was born with a narrow upper face and broad lower face, the physiognomist Shu Xing predicted he would become ruler of Lu, which later came true. The "Dui" and "Feng" hexagrams referenced here originate from the Book of Changes.

The Han dynasty general Wei Qing had a perfectly square forehead, which a tattooed slave recognized as marking future nobility. Though then still a slave, Wei Qing later achieved fame conquering the Xiongnu and became a great general.

Another Han general, Zhou Yafu, had vertical facial lines entering his mouth. The seer Xu Fu foretold he would starve to death - a prophecy fulfilled when Zhou, imprisoned for crimes, refused food for seven days and died.

When the Jin official Yang Fu was born crying like a jackal, his grandmother Shuji foresaw he would bring clan extermination. True to prediction, Yang later caused civil unrest in Jin that destroyed his entire lineage.

Heaven determines fortune's ebb and flow: those fated for poverty will meet disaster even if temporarily honored, while the destined fortunate cannot be harmed by malice. During a hunt, the Xia dynasty's Kong Jia took shelter from a storm in a house where a child had just been born. Diviners declared the child ill-omened, but Kong Jia adopted him. Later the boy injured his foot woodcutting and became a gatekeeper, prompting Kong Jia to reflect this was heaven-ordained disability.

Emperor Wen of Han dreamed of falling into a well and being saved by Deng Tong. Upon awakening, he found a man matching the dream figure's appearance and thereafter showered Deng with extraordinary favor.

This passage recounts several stories about destiny, illustrating how human prosperity and poverty are not entirely determined by one's own efforts.

The first story takes place during Emperor Wen of Han's reign, when a physiognomist predicted Deng Tong would die of starvation. The emperor, disbelieving this, declared "wealth and status are mine to bestow," and granted Deng Tong a copper mountain with rights to mint coins. Yet after Emperor Wen's death, Deng Tong lost his patron and ultimately died in destitution while living as a dependent.

The second story tells of the legendary origins of Chief Minister Ziwen of Chu. His mother, a woman of the Yun clan, abandoned him in the mountains after bearing him out of wedlock. Miraculously, a tiger nursed the infant until a hunter from the Yun clan discovered and adopted him. This child would later become Chu's prime minister.

The third narrative describes a maidservant in the ancient northern kingdom of Baoli who became pregnant. When the king sought to execute her, she explained her pregnancy was Heaven's will. After giving birth, her child was abandoned multiple times, yet pigs and horses protected the infant with their warm breath. This child eventually became king of the Fuyu kingdom.

These stories demonstrate how human destiny descends from Heaven and emerges from Earth, defying conventional logic and remaining impervious to mere intelligence or effort. Modern people fail to recognize destiny's inherent limitations—those with impoverished fate forcibly pursue wealth, those destined for short lives vainly seek longevity. Such thinking reflects profound delusion.

(Note: "Yunzi" refers to the woman of the Yun clan; "Ziwen" is the famous Chu minister Dou Ziwen, called "Gouwutu" in Chu dialect; "Fuyu" was an ancient ethnic kingdom in Northeast China)