《劉子》Vol. 7

Chapter 31 "The Value of Words" in Volume 7 of the Master Liu text discusses the importance of virtuous speech for self-cultivation. Yuan Xiaozheng's commentary provides several vivid illustrations:

Just as the sharp swords from Yue territory must undergo the blacksmith's hammer and anvil to become renowned blades like "Chun Jun," or how the sturdy zhe wood from Chu requires the "bang qing" (an ancient tool for straightening bows) to be crafted into imperial ceremonial bows, so too must human nature—though inherently intelligent—be refined through virtuous words to perfect one's De (Virtue).

The text employs three everyday analogies to illuminate this principle: People use mirrors to adjust their appearance and combs to arrange their hair, yet often neglect using virtuous words to illuminate their inner selves. Mirrors and combs only address external appearances—a minor benefit—whereas virtuous speech cultivates De, representing far greater merit. Regrettably, people frequently prioritize superficial adornment over spiritual refinement, akin to valuing fine robes while neglecting personal virtue—a fundamental misplacement of priorities.

The chapter concludes with an anecdote about King Zhuang of Chu: When contemplating the annexation of Chen, his minister Shen Shishi admonished that such action would lead other states to perceive Chu as land-hungry warmongers. Heeding this advice, the king instead installed a Chen descendant on the throne. This exemplifies how wise rulers treasure candid counsel, valuing a single virtuous word more than a thousand-chariot kingdom, preferring constructive criticism over hollow praise.

This passage recounts several historical anecdotes illustrating the importance of heeding wise counsel.

When the State of Chu adopted the advice of virtuous ministers to seek out a suitable descendant for the throne, the kingdom achieved stability. When Fan Xian, a minister of Jin, planned a pleasure trip, his boatman admonished: "If you diligently govern, even if the son of Luan You comes for revenge, he can do nothing; but if you neglect state affairs, anyone aboard this vessel could become your enemy." Moved by this, Fan Xian rewarded the boatman with ten thousand acres of fertile land to honor his loyal words.

The text then describes the conduct of two exemplary men: Ji Lu (a disciple of Confucius) adhered to five disciplines of caution, while Zhao Meng (a Jin official) carried nine admonitions. These nine principles were: no envy, no tyranny, no abuse of favor, no blind following, no violation of rites, no hoarding of talents, no excessive leniency, no punishment of virtuous men, and no unrighteous deeds.

Through these examples, the text demonstrates that precious jade and fiefdoms pale in comparison to valuable advice. Duke Huan of Qi ignored Bian Que's (the legendary physician) diagnosis and ultimately died from an incurable illness. During three consultations, Bian Que had warned: "At first, the illness was in the skin and treatable by acupuncture; then in the muscles curable by decoctions; but when it reached the marrow, no remedy existed."

Similarly, the King of Wu disregarded minister Mei Sheng's counsel against rebellion, leading to the kingdom's downfall. These stories collectively show that rejecting loyal advice brings grave consequences, while valuing admonitions preserves both personal safety and national stability.

When a person is about to fall ill, they inevitably lose the ability to savor the taste of fish and meat; when a state is on the verge of collapse, its ruler inevitably refuses to heed loyal admonitions. Thus, the dying often claim there are no good physicians in the world, and doomed rulers insist their courts lack ministers bold enough to speak frankly. This is not because their ears are truly deaf—it is their hearts that reject honest counsel. The wise accept advice before problems take shape, heed warnings when misfortunes first sprout, embracing good words as smoothly as rolling a sphere, and shunning harmful actions as resolutely as avoiding enemies.

The ancient sage-kings placed exceptional emphasis on welcoming criticism: Emperor Yao established "admonition drums" for commoners to voice grievances, Emperor Shun erected "slander posts" for people to inscribe opinions, King Tang appointed officials solely to record faults, and King Wu of Zhou kept a warning drum to rouse his vigilance. These sage-kings, though supremely wise and inherently faultless, still opened wide channels for counsel—precisely to set an example for posterity. If even sages would listen to woodcutters' advice, how much more should ordinary people value others' suggestions? Between ministers and rulers, children and parents, or friends, frank admonition should prevail.

Concerning praise and slander: Commendation is the pivot that spreads good deeds, while defamation is the mechanism that disseminates malice. Human nature delights in praise, yet envy breeds slander. Ordinary people crave exaggerated speech—if praise isn’t amplified, listeners feel unsatisfied; if criticism isn’t magnified, they find it dull. Since this world has few virtuous people and many wicked ones, honest praise goes unheard while malicious slander clamors loudly. Some behave like deliberate fault-finders: inspecting washed items solely for stains, blowing apart hairs to pinpoint flaws, turning white into black, magnifying petty faults into grave crimes. When Mozi wept over plain silk (Mencius lamented how pristine silk could be easily dyed—a metaphor for truth’s corruption), he grieved precisely this distortion of reality.

This passage illustrates through multiple allusions how slander distorts truth and blackens reputations, and why people readily believe malicious gossip.

Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) once wept upon seeing a fork in the road, lamenting how life resembles diverging paths where different choices lead to entirely different outcomes. Just as the color green can turn yellow, so too can a good person's reputation be tarnished by slander until it becomes infamy.

The text cites a classic example from the Book of Songs satirizing Duke Wu of Wei for believing slander: "The buzzing flies alight on fences, just as slander turns white into black." It further compares slander to sharp blades that stain pure white silk black ("zī" meaning black).

The author enumerates four dreadful things creatures fear: birds dread raptors with curved necks and sharp talons; beasts fear predators with square maws and hooked claws; fish fear giant fish with split lips and jagged teeth; but what humans should fear most are silver-tongued slanderers. Such people delight in uncovering others' flaws while resenting hearing about virtues. When encountering those more talented or of higher status, they burn with envy—like trying to swallow a fishbone stuck in the throat or gouging out a cataract from the eye.

History records many virtuous individuals slandered: Zhi Buyi (a Western Han official), who had no elder brother, was falsely accused of adultery with his sister-in-law; Diwu Lun (an Eastern Han minister), who married orphaned women three times, was rumored to beat his fathers-in-law. Such slanders are as absurd as demanding echoes from emptiness or seeking shadows in barren land.

Final metaphors reveal how slander obscures truth: the brightest sun can be veiled by thick fog, the clearest river muddied by silt. When sages suffer calumny, it's not due to flawed character, but because—like beasts hating traps or commoners envying superiors—such is human nature.

The Liu Zi passage illustrates the destructive power of slander and the importance of preventing problems at their inception.

It begins with a historical anecdote: In the Jin state, ministers Wuji (of the Fei clan, originally from Chu) and Zichang (of the Xi clan) served together. When the Jin ruler expressed interest in visiting Zichang's residence, Wuji deceitfully advised Zichang: "Our lord enjoys military displays. When he visits tomorrow, you should station elite guards inside your gates—he'll be delighted." Zichang took the advice. Upon the ruler's arrival, Wuji first inspected the premises and emerged declaring: "Zichang has hidden troops plotting rebellion!" In rage, the ruler executed Zichang. Later when the scheme was exposed, Wuji too met execution—thus the famous case of "Dual Downfall of Xi and Fei."

The author laments: To think slander can wreak such havoc! How can later gentlemen not remain vigilant?

The text then expounds the principle of "guarding against cracks": Faults become steps to resentment; resentment forms the root of calamity. Disasters often arise from accumulated grievances, while faults frequently begin with neglected trivialities. Minor oversights often occur unexpectedly; deep resentments mostly form beyond our guard. Thus when calamity strikes, it cannot be undone; once formed, it defies prevention. Without rigorous defense against resentment, misfortune inevitably arrives.

Consider those who traverse steep slopes without falling—they succeed through caution toward great dangers. Yet some stumble over anthills through contempt for small things. With step-by-step vigilance, one walks dangerous paths safely; with careless underestimation, even level roads bring falls. The wise understand small hazards' potential, maintaining alertness toward subtle dangers like driving spirited horses with rotten reins. Though a goose feather weighs little, accumulated they can sink ships.

This scripture employs multiple metaphors and historical allusions to expound the principle that "small grievances accumulate into great calamities":

Using analogies like piled silk eventually breaking a cart's axle, wall cracks leading to collapse, or sword flaws causing breakage, it illustrates how minor issues can accumulate into major disasters. Just as earthworms can bore through dams to cause floods, or a small chimney leak may spark a great fire, grievances often begin as trivial matters but develop into dangers far greater than collapsed walls or broken swords.

The Book of Documents states that grievances need not be obvious—one should guard against them before they manifest. Grievances know no size distinction: a single spark can burn down Mount Kunlun, and tiny streams converge into mighty rivers. The consequences of resentment are unpredictable—sometimes minor grudges erupt into catastrophes, while deep-seated hatred may remain harmless. Like how gale winds scatter clouds and roll boulders yet cannot harm the human body, while gentle breezes seem harmless yet penetrate the skin to cause illness.

Two historical examples are cited: First, Emperor Gaozu of Han narrowly avoided assassination at Boren Pavilion through intuition; later, the would-be assassin Guan Gao committed suicide to prove Prince of Zhao's innocence. Second, Cao Cao (later Emperor Wei) killed Zhang Xiu (a general allied with Yuan Shao) due to personal enmity, with grave consequences. Both cases demonstrate how minor resentments can trigger major disasters.

This passage recounts several historical figures who demonstrated wisdom and magnanimity when faced with humiliation and enmity.

Xu Chu, a general under Yuan Shao, killed Cao Cao’s beloved son in battle. Later, when Yuan Shao was defeated, Xu Chu considered defecting to Eastern Wu. Someone warned him, "You killed Cao Cao’s son—how could you possibly seek refuge with him?" But Xu Chu believed Cao Cao had grand ambitions and would not let personal vendettas interfere with greater affairs. In the end, he defected to Cao Cao, who indeed bore no grudge and instead entrusted him with important duties, saying, "It is precisely because of you that I can demonstrate magnanimity to the world."

When Han Xin was young, a local ruffian in Huaiyin publicly humiliated him, forcing him to crawl between his legs. Han Xin endured the disgrace, and later, after rising to become a great general, he sought out the same man. Rather than seeking revenge, he appointed him to an official post.

Han Anguo, while imprisoned, was mocked by a jailer named Tian Jia, who boasted that if Han ever regained power, he would urinate on him. Later, when Han Anguo was released and appointed to high office, Tian Jia fled in terror. Instead of retaliating, Han merely joked, "Now that the embers have reignited, why don’t you make good on your promise?" In the end, he pardoned Tian Jia.

These stories illustrate that under enlightened rulers and broad-minded individuals, even deep-seated grudges can be resolved. Contrast this with the petty behavior of the Chu state during the Warring States period, which attacked Handan in Zhao simply because it disliked Lu’s wine—a display of narrow-mindedness. True heroes, like Cao Cao, Han Xin, and Han Anguo, know how to set aside personal grievances to achieve greatness.

This passage recounts several historical anecdotes where minor incidents escalated into major disasters:

During a banquet hosted by the King of Zhao, an envoy from Chu requested fine wine but was refused. Later, the Chu envoy secretly replaced the fine wine that Zhao had prepared as tribute to Chu with inferior liquor. When the King of Chu drank the poor-quality wine, he became furious, believing Zhao had insulted him twice, and consequently sent troops to besiege Handan (modern Hebei), the Zhao capital.

Before a battle, the Song general Hua Yuan slaughtered sheep to feast his troops but neglected to share any with his charioteer Yang Zhen. The next day during combat, the resentful Yang deliberately drove their chariot into enemy lines, causing Song's defeat and Hua Yuan's capture. Afterwards, Yang deceitfully claimed the horses had bolted.

During a cockfight between Marquis Zhao of Lu and Ji Pingzi, one equipped his rooster with metal spurs while the other coated his bird's wings with mustard powder. Their mutual resentment over this escalated into armed conflict, resulting in Marquis Zhao's death.

The ruler of Qi, seeking amusement, intentionally had concubines hide behind curtains to mock the limping Jin envoy Xi Ke. Humiliated, Xi returned home and later led Jin's army to attack Qi, inflicting a crushing defeat.

These are classic examples of how disregarding small matters and nursing petty grievances can invite catastrophe. Some brought about national ruin, personal destruction, and became laughingstocks throughout the land - all over a cup of wine, a bowl of meat broth, a cockfight, or a few mocking words. Such tragedies stemmed entirely from failing to handle minor affairs with proper caution.

The text from Liu Zi primarily elucidates the principle that fortune and misfortune are interdependent, and that things reverse upon reaching their extremes, while emphasizing the importance of humility and moderation in human conduct.

Minor issues, if neglected, may escalate into major calamities. Fortune and misfortune share the same origin, just as benefit and harm are mutually dependent—only the exceptionally wise can discern this clearly. A person's thoughts and actions are the key determinants of their fortune or misfortune, and thus must be treated with caution.

Like the cyclical alternation of the four seasons and the operation of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), when things reach their zenith, they inevitably reverse: the sun begins to decline westward at its zenith, and the moon wanes after becoming full—this is the natural order. Excessive accumulation of wealth leads to loss, the prime of life is inevitably followed by aging, and extreme joy gives way to sorrow.

When Confucius saw a ritual vessel called the "Tilting Vessel" (欹器) in the temple of the Duke of Zhou, he observed that it tilted when empty and overturned when filled with water, remaining upright only when the water level was moderate. Reflecting on this, Confucius remarked that the ancients crafted this vessel to admonish future generations about the importance of restraint and maintaining balance.

To know advancement but not retreat is as perilous as standing on the edge of a brimming vessel. Only those who remain vigilant in times of peace can be as stable as Mount Tai. In the Book of Changes, the hexagram "Great Strength" (大壮) symbolizes thunder in the heavens, representing vigor, while the hexagram "Modesty" (谦) depicts a mountain beneath the earth, signifying humility. The humble understand how to reduce excess, while the strong know to refrain from overstepping. Those who maintain propriety despite their strength and assist others while remaining modest will invariably succeed, whereas the arrogant and complacent are doomed to fail.

Sages comprehend the principle that prosperity inevitably gives way to decline. Even after achieving great merit, they remain humble—like King Zhuang of Chu, who grew cautious after accomplishing mighty deeds, or Duke Wen of Jin, who became more circumspect following military victories. They neither grew arrogant due to their profound virtue nor looked down upon others because of their exalted status. This teaches us that true wisdom lies in understanding restraint and preserving humility.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "humility," illustrating through multiple dimensions the importance of maintaining modesty.

It begins with historical examples: Yu the Great (Da Yu) would interrupt his meal seven times to attend to state affairs, and the Duke of Zhou would pause while washing his hair three times to receive worthy scholars. They did not enjoy hunger or exhaustion but prioritized honoring the virtuous over personal comfort. The Book of Changes (Yijing) states, "The noble who humbles themselves to serve the lowly truly wins the people’s hearts." Thus, a true noble person should embody the following: holding high status yet remaining humble, being wealthy yet frugal, esteemed yet approachable, wise yet appearing simple, courageous yet showing caution, eloquent yet seeming reserved, learned yet appearing unassuming, and brilliant yet concealing their sharpness. This is the genuine wisdom of "diminishing without exhausting."

Next, it employs natural metaphors: the Dao of Heaven shines downward to illuminate all things, and rivers and seas remain low to gather countless streams. Mountains hidden within the earth appear even more majestic, and kings and lords who call themselves "solitary" or "humble" only enhance their dignity. All nobility is rooted in humility—true leaders do not put on airs, for only then can they genuinely guide the people. As the Book of Changes says, "The humble are exalted," and Laozi also teaches, "Only by not boasting can one achieve merit."

True humility lies in willingly lowering oneself, as sages willingly dwell in simplicity. Yet worldly people love to boast—the slightest accomplishment must be flaunted, and no reward ever feels sufficient; if they trumpet their good deeds, no recognition seems enough. This competitive mindset only breeds conflict.

The noble person, however, is entirely different: they restrain themselves in moments of glory, neither flaunting achievements nor broadcasting virtue. Precisely because they do not strive for recognition, their merits endure; by forgetting their own goodness, their virtue becomes complete. This is not feigned modesty but a genuine transcendence of attachment to fame and merit. To speak of humility while secretly competing is hypocrisy; to inspire others through good deeds without claiming credit is true De (Virtue).

This passage explores two core principles: the conduct of sages and the steadfast character of loyal individuals.

Regarding proper conduct, the author observes: Some people appear humble outwardly but do not truly possess humility in their hearts, merely refraining from speaking of their merits. Yet truly virtuous individuals can openly discuss their good deeds without compromising their integrity. For instance, Yu the Great spoke openly about his achievements in flood control, and Gao Yao (a legendary minister) articulated his governance strategies while acknowledging his own contributions—this was not boasting. The sages understood humanity's tendency to admire virtue yet indulge in self-praise, hence they emphasized humility in ritual codes to counteract arrogance.

The second part employs natural metaphors to illustrate moral character: A fierce fire does not diminish its heat in bitter cold nor blaze excessively in scorching heat—this reflects its unchanging nature. Just as cinnabar cannot be ground to lose its redness, orchids retain their fragrance when burned, jade remains pure when shattered, and gold stays unyielding when melted, so too do loyal individuals uphold their principles unshaken by life or death. They will not compromise righteousness for gain nor abandon their convictions out of fear.

Historical examples reinforce this: When Bai Gong Sheng of Chu rebelled and threatened Zi Lü with a blade to force cooperation, Zi Lü chose death over submission. Similarly, when Cui Zhu of Qi assassinated his ruler and tried to coerce Yan Ying into alliance with threats, Yan Ying remained unyielding. These cases demonstrate that true loyalty cannot be swayed by coercion or temptation.

The author emphasizes that such individuals may appear ordinary in daily life, but their unwavering integrity in critical moments—like an unbroken ink-line of moral rectitude—sets them apart. This is what elevates them beyond common people.

(Note: While this text discusses moral philosophy rather than explicitly Daoist concepts, the translation maintains the original's classical Chinese philosophical tone, with natural transitions and parallel structures preserved. Key cultural terms like "Yu the Great," "Gao Yao," and historical figures are rendered directly with contextual clarity.)

This passage illustrates through metaphor how a person's true character is often revealed only through arduous trials. Just as the fine jade from Zhong Mountain (located in the Kuaiji region) and the pine trees growing on cold ridges appear no different from ordinary stones and trees under normal circumstances. Those stones resembling jade (ruǎn mín) melt when exposed to fire, while common catalpas and willows remain unremarkable.

But genuine Zhong Mountain jade shows no discoloration even after three days in a furnace, and cold ridge pines submerged in stagnant water for an entire year retain their verdant foliage without withering—only then does their distinction from other jades and trees become evident. Similarly, a person's true qualities emerge through hardship: bare-handed combat with a fierce tiger reveals courage, scaling steep cliffs demonstrates agility, lifting immense weights proves strength, and enduring adversity showcases steadfastness and bravery.

The text also mentions two renowned artifacts of antiquity: the Ganjiang sword and the Wuhao bow. One need not wield Ganjiang to recognize its sharpness, nor draw the Wuhao bow to understand its power. The Wuhao bow has an extraordinary origin—legend tells of a mulberry tree before the Yellow Emperor's palace, whose branches could launch crows into flight. When startled, the crows emitted a "hao" (howling) cry, hence the name. The Yellow Emperor discovered this wood was exceptionally suited for crafting bows, resulting in the supremely refined Wuhao bow. Another version holds that the Wuhao bow was a divine relic the Yellow Emperor obtained at Mount Dinghu, while yet another attributes its name to the frequent crow calls heard from southern ridge mulberry trees.

Just as superior timber and keen weaponry are easily recognized, though human aspirations and conduct may not be directly visible, they become clearly manifest through concrete events. This passage emphasizes the importance of practice and testing in discerning the essence of things.