《劉子》Vol. 8

Chapter 37 "On Giving" from Book 8 of the Master Liu examines the nature of wealth and human relationships. Yuan Xiaozheng's commentary observes: Mountains don't grow forests for birds, yet when trees flourish, birds naturally nest there; rivers and lakes aren't dug for fish, yet when waters deepen, fish naturally gather. The principle of human interaction follows the same pattern—one doesn't accumulate wealth deliberately for others, yet when wealth accumulates, people naturally gravitate toward it. This isn't the result of active solicitation but the inevitable outcome of circumstances.

A jade-carrier may not be generous, yet crowds compete for his favor because he possesses the means to bestow benefits. A scholar in coarse hemp may inherently disdain wealth, yet finds himself shunned because he lacks resources for generosity. In reality, the miserly rich still command respect while the charitable poor face indifference—this reflects not moral character but how human sentiments shift with material conditions.

Like a cart struggling uphill or a boat tossed at sea—mountain paths wind and ocean waves churn—the benevolent find their charity constrained by poverty. For the wealthy, aiding others poses little hardship; for the poor, frugality isn't wrongdoing. Heaven's Dao reduces surplus, yet human nature pities deficiency. When one uses jade from Mount Kunlun to shoot birds or feeds dogs with choice fish from Lake Poyang, none lament the waste—not because they inherently undervalue treasures, but because resources seem limitless. No one begrudges water drawn from a jug or fire kindled with reed tinder—not due to innate generosity, but because these commodities appear abundant.

Men aren't gourds that can survive without sustenance, nor wood and stone that need no clothing. When starving, who can share their last grain? When freezing, who can give away their only robe? This isn't innate stinginess but genuine deprivation. Failing to aid kin during famine yet feasting neighbors in plenty—the former draws scorn while the latter earns praise. What appear as virtuous or vicious acts stem not from temperament but harvest conditions. Thus we see: kindness flows easily from abundance, while benevolence struggles in poverty. Just as horse judges often miss fine steeds due to leanness, people overlook virtue in the poor. The world holds no shortage of those who value righteousness over wealth—it's merely that poverty obscures their radiance, leaving their De (Virtue/Power) unrecognized.

This passage uses metaphors of sword forging and lacquer application to illustrate how human character cultivation requires the harmonious balance of firmness and flexibility.

Just as the renowned swordsmith Ou Yezi (master artisan of the Yue state during the Spring and Autumn period) knew that a blade too hard would shatter easily while one too soft would lose its edge, the solution lay in blending the right amount of tin with the metal—the metallic hardness tempered by tin's pliability creates the perfect sword. Similarly, when skilled craftsmen apply lacquer, the finish must dry neither too slowly (which prevents proper setting) nor too quickly (which compromises durability), requiring precise timing for perfection.

The same principle applies to human character cultivation: excessive firmness leads to harshness and cruelty, while excessive softness results in timidity; acting too slowly means missing opportunities, while excessive haste causes rash mistakes. Thus, truly cultivated individuals should embody strength without cruelty, gentleness without cowardice, composure without sluggishness, and swiftness without impatience. Only then can one achieve the harmonious temperament of a perfectly tempered blade.

The text cites several historical lessons: King Yan of Xu lost his kingdom through excessive benevolence, realizing too late that "knowing only civil virtue (De) while neglecting others' treachery" led to his downfall; Yang Chufu, a Jin state minister, met his death due to excessive rigidity; Lord Ziyang of Zheng was assassinated by his ministers for extreme harshness; Chief Minister Zixi of Chu invited assassination through excessive leniency; and Duke Zhuang of Zhu brought about his own demise through impetuousness.

Two examples of self-regulation conclude the passage: During the Warring States period, Magistrate Ximen Bao of Ye, aware of his impatient nature, wore soft tanned leather to remind himself to cultivate gentleness; while Governor Dong Anyu of Jinyang, recognizing his tendency toward slowness, carried taut bowstrings to prompt swifter action. These vivid examples demonstrate how character cultivation requires conscious self-adjustment.

The passage conveys two main ideas:

The first part emphasizes the importance of Yin-Yang balance. All things in the world require mutual harmony - just as the coordination of Yin and Yang brings cosmic equilibrium, and the interplay of firmness and gentleness ensures human affairs proceed smoothly. When Yin and Yang fall out of balance, floods and droughts occur; when strength and softness become disproportionate, power imbalances emerge. The wise understand the need for prudence within generosity, gentleness within severity, and flexibility within firmness - balancing strength and weakness, urgency and leisure. By acting this way, one avoids violating natural principles and inviting calamity.

The second part illustrates innate differences among creatures through numerous contrasts. While humans admire ornate pavilions, birds fear entering them; steep cliffs delight apes but terrify humans; beautiful music pleases people yet startles beasts; rushing deep pools house fish and dragons but frighten those who dive in. Flying mice relish ashes, tapirs crave iron, and the mythical fenghuang bird prefers snakes, while humans enjoy grains and cooked food.

The author observes that although birds, beasts and humans all receive Qi from heaven and earth and possess the Five Phases' nature, they share basic sensory perceptions - seeing the sun and moon, hearing thunder, feeling heat and cold. Yet aesthetic preferences differ radically: some admire rosy jade-like complexions, while the Yellow Emperor favored the legendary ugly woman Mumo, and Lord Chen preferred the hideous Dunqia. This demonstrates aesthetic taste is subjective, defying conventional logic - like calling black white, mistaking feathers for horns, taking bitterness for sweetness, or perceiving foul odors as fragrance.

This passage explores two main themes: the diversity of human sensory preferences and the origins of warfare.

The first section discusses how people's sensory inclinations vary greatly. Some relish honey-preserved bear paws (bear paws boiled and cured in honey) or pickled calamus greens, while others delight in refined music like "Spring Snow" or "Gathering Water Chestnuts." Yet certain individuals prefer the cries of mountain birds or the sound of percussive beats. Some cherish fragrant herbs like tulips, spring orchids, or autumn cymbidiums, whereas coastal dwellers may find pleasure in the stench of decaying flesh. These examples illustrate how sensory preferences can differ radically—even diametrically—among individuals. The author attributes this to human nature, suggesting that standards of beauty and ugliness, good and bad, are inherently subjective with no absolute measure.

The second section traces the genesis of warfare. In antiquity, people lived with pristine simplicity until societal decline bred conflict. The Divine Farmer (Shennong, legendary inventor of agriculture and medicine) first created bows and arrows to intimidate warring factions. Later, the tribal leader Chiyou forged metal weapons, marking warfare's true emergence. The text then recounts legendary battles: the Yellow Emperor's victory at Zhuolu, the cosmic clash between Gonggong (water deity) and Zhuanxu at Mount Buzhou (where Gonggong's defeat led to his collision with the celestial pillar, tilting heaven northwest and sinking earth southeast in mythic catastrophe), followed by successive military campaigns through the reigns of Yao, Shun, and the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties. The conclusion underscores weapons as instruments of calamity—both economically wasteful and devastating to human life.

The mythical "Mount Buzhou," one of heaven's pillars in the northwest, and "Gonggong," the ancient water god, reflect classical Chinese interpretations of history framing warfare as symptomatic of moral decay. These narratives crystallize the ancients' view of conflict as emerging from lost virtue.

Even the legendary Five Emperors and Three Sovereigns of antiquity could not completely eliminate warfare, yet military action should only be employed to suppress violence and quell rebellion—never to squander resources or bring suffering to the people. However, gathering armies inevitably consumes wealth, and clashing blades inevitably harms civilians; this is the inexorable law of circumstance. Thus the Dao of warfare values victory through wisdom, not close combat. Winning a hundred battles is not the highest military skill—the truly adept commander achieves victory without fighting, which represents the supreme attainment.

The armies of true kings make others submit through righteous virtue (De), while conquerors' forces seize victory through stratagem. Since generals determine a nation's survival and the people's lives, their appointment demands utmost gravity. Therefore, sovereigns ceremoniously appoint commanders in the ancestral temple, bestowing the battle-axe as a symbol of authority. Upon receiving command, the general observes purification rituals (donning ceremonial robes) and performs the Ominous Gate rite (breaking through a symbolic "gate of death" to signify resolute commitment). Entering battle, he forgets familial ties; hearing the war drums, he disregards personal safety. Only thus can he fear neither heaven above nor earth below, neither hesitate before nor regret behind—prioritizing the nation's preservation and the application of strategic wisdom above all.

An exceptional commander must master three domains: celestial timing, terrestrial advantage, and human strategy. Understanding celestial timing requires observing the movements of sun, moon, and five planets (Seven Luminaries), comprehending the mutual generation and restraint of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), discerning winds from eight directions, and interpreting cloud omens. Mastering terrain involves knowing seven types of encampments and nine varieties of battlegrounds. Specifically: in mountainous warfare, never attack uphill; in marshy regions, avoid deep bogs; on plains, never venture recklessly into exposed danger.

Those skilled in human leadership cultivate five virtues (wisdom, trustworthiness, benevolence, courage, and sternness) and wield two instruments (rewards and punishments). Wisdom guides planning, trustworthiness ensures discipline, benevolence fosters troop care, courage overwhelms foes, and sternness commands obedience. Rewards motivate merit; penalties rectify faults. Wisdom is the wellspring of adaptability—the root of unconventional victory. Warfare follows the Dao of deception, using it to overcome adversaries.

Consider Sun Bin's classic stratagem: When Wei dispatched Pang Juan to attack Zhao, Zhao sought Qi's aid. Sun Bin, leading relief forces with inferior numbers, feigned retreat to appear weak. Mistaking this for cowardice, Pang Juan pursued—only to be ambushed at Maling's narrow pass where ten thousand crossbows lay concealed. As Wei troops entered the kill zone, arrows rained down, annihilating Pang Juan's army. Similarly, Tian Dan's "fire oxen" charge (a thousand cattle stampeding with flaming tails) crushed Yan's forces—both exemplifying victory through wisdom rather than brute force.

In the state of Qi, there was a brilliant defensive general named Tian Dan. When the Yan army invaded Qi and captured seventy cities, Tian Dan found himself besieged in Jimo city. Though completely surrounded, he steadfastly refused to surrender. The Yan commander threatened: "Surrender immediately or I'll slaughter everyone when we break through." Tian Dan pretended to comply: "Give me one night to consider—I'll surrender tomorrow."

That night, Tian Dan secretly dug tunnels and gathered a thousand water buffaloes. He fastened blades to their horns, painted dragon patterns on their bodies, and draped them with multicolored cloth. At midnight, he tied oil-soaked reeds to their tails and set them ablaze before driving the herd through the tunnels. The panicked buffaloes—their tails burning—charged madly into the Yan camp. These "fire oxen" caused such chaos that the Yan army suffered heavy casualties. Seizing the advantage, Tian Dan led his troops in pursuit and routed the enemy completely.

Han Xin, another master strategist, employed clever tactics during his campaign against Zhao. He had each soldier carry two sacks of earth to dam the Sui River. When the Chu army crossed in pursuit, he suddenly breached the dam—trapping the enemy midstream and securing victory.

General Luan Zhi of Jin devised an even more ingenious plan when outnumbered. He ordered his troops to drag tree branches while marching, stirring up massive dust clouds. From afar, the enemy mistook this for the approach of a vast army.

Other legendary stratagems include using stampeding pigs to break enemy formations, or Lu Ban's invention of cloud ladders for siege warfare. The art of warfare resembles flowing water—it naturally avoids heights and seeks low ground. In battle, one should evade the enemy's strengths and strike their weaknesses, avoid orderly formations to attack disarrayed troops, and shun high morale forces to target weary ones. Like water without fixed form, military tactics should adapt fluidly to circumstances. Sometimes violating conventional wisdom brings unexpected success—what appears disorderly may prove remarkably effective. Just as tangible wind can be blocked by curtains, formless wind remains indefensible.

One skilled in attack makes the enemy know not where to defend, like sudden lightning whose strike cannot be anticipated. One skilled in defense makes the enemy find no point of assault, like searching for boundaries across vast heaven and earth. Seeing through my strategy, one need not fear the enemy's fortifications; discerning my strength, one need not fear the enemy's deceit. These principles every commander must understand.

The commander's foundation lies in strategy, while humaneness is strategy's source. Subdue opponents through tactics, win hearts through benevolence. Thus commanders triumph by wisdom, soldiers prevail through strength. Commanders must prioritize flexible decision-making, soldiers must value unity above all. A sky full of stars pales before a single moon, for starlight scatters; though mighty as tigers, men are subdued when minds divide. Ten thousand men with discordant hearts cannot match a hundred united; a thousand fighting in turns cannot equal ten charging shoulder to shoulder.

To forge an army of one mind and warriors who court death, the key lies in balanced benevolence and clear rewards and punishments. Some prisoners face danger without fear, tread ice without trembling, approach execution without concern—they have transcended life and death. Soldiers who charge spears and brave flames regard death as homecoming—not from fearlessness, but moved by their commander's humanity.

To win soldiers' hearts, commanders must share their lot: in summer, no solitary parasol; in winter, no thick furs—sharing heat and cold; on treacherous paths, dismounting; on hills, walking—sharing toil and rest; eating only when the army's meal is ready, drinking only when the wells are dug—sharing hunger and thirst; standing amid arrows in battle—sharing peril. Like King Goujian of Yue pouring fine wine into the river for all to share, or King Zhuang of Chu whose warm words clothed his men like cotton robes.

With such unity, all will vie to serve unto death. An army thus inspired moves like boulders tumbling down mountains, floodwaters surging through valleys—who could withstand it?

The Methods of Sima (a military treatise by Sima Rangju) states: "Even if a nation is powerful, warmongering will lead to its downfall; though the world may be at peace, forgetting military preparedness invites peril." Frequent warfare exhausts the people, while neglecting training breeds complacency.

Complacency is no way to preserve oneself, and laxity is no strategy against enemies. Therefore, armies must not act rashly, yet must maintain constant military drills—this is how to protect the people's lives and perfect defense preparations. Confucius said, "To fail to train the people for war is to abandon them." The Book of Changes states, "The nobleman sharpens his weapons to guard against the unexpected." Thus, spring hunts are called "searching," summer hunts "tending," autumn hunts "harvesting," and winter hunts "hunting"—all utilizing agricultural off-seasons for military exercises.

Every three years, a "military drill" is held (the commencement of training is called "governing the troops"), and its conclusion is termed "revitalizing the ranks." Upon returning, a "victory feast" is held, with ancestral temple sacrifices—these rituals uphold order, clarify social distinctions, harmonize seniority, demarcate ranks, and practice authority. When armies are vast, flags and commands are essential: where voices cannot be heard, drums and bells convey orders; where vision is obstructed, banners direct sight.

If the people are unfamiliar with warfare, they will neither understand drum signals nor recognize banner commands. Advancing or retreating without obeying orders, their formations will scatter chaotically. Thus, soldiers tremble before battle, and horses sweat before running—not from cowardice or weakness, but from lack of training.

King Helü of Wu trained his palace concubines in battle formations, disciplining them with strict decrees until their maneuvers met standards (the Wu people had palace women master full combat protocols). They would charge through fire and water without retreating—not born brave, but forged by training. Like the famed Mo Ye sword: though peerlessly sharp, it dulls in clumsy hands. The skilled prevail while the unskilled fail—all hinges on training.

King Helü tested his people with naval drills on Lake Tai (the waters of Yue, where Wu and Yue excelled in aquatic warfare); King Goujian of Yue drilled near his palace until his people vied to brave fire and water, with thousands dead or wounded before the gong recalled them. Was this fearlessness? No—it was clear rewards and punishments coupled with rigorous training. Even the legendary archer Feng Meng (who studied under Hou Yi and mastered his craft) could not draw an unstrung bow.

Zao Fu (a renowned horse trainer in ancient times), though exceptionally skilled at handling horses, could not drive untamed steeds. He was the seventh-generation ancestor of Zhao Jianzi and served as the royal charioteer under King Mu of Zhou, once driving the king's carriage up Mount Kunlun.

Ban Chui (a master craftsman from the era of Shennong), despite his exquisite craftsmanship, could not work with dull axes. Sun Wu and Wu Qi (famous ancient strategists) excelled in military command but couldn't lead untrained soldiers. Fierce creatures like pixiu (mythical beasts) were naturally savage, yet the Yellow Emperor trained them for battle; hawks and kites were innately violent, but the Luo clan (ancient falconry experts) taught them to hunt. Though these beasts lacked intelligence, they could be trained to fight under human guidance—such is the power of instruction. How much more should this apply to a nation's soldiers and citizens? How can military training be neglected?

Thus skills like archery and charioteering, through repeated practice, yield results during hunts—all through disciplined training. Without prior preparation, one fears failure; how then can success be expected? Pitting trained soldiers against untrained ones is like having northern nomads compete in swimming with southern Yue tribes—the outcome is obvious. Therefore, wise rulers of old used idle periods to inspect troops and maintain weapons (缮 means battle preparation), making ready for the nation's needs.

Chapter 42 discusses the principle of "expediency" (权变): Following constant principles is called the Dao (the Way), while adapting to crises is called expediency. The term "expediency" resembles the relationship between a steelyard's sliding weight and its beam. The beam measures balance or tilt, while the weight assesses the gravity of circumstances. Objects of differing weights manifest on the beam. Add a ring to the left side, and the right rises; add it to the right, the left ascends. Only without external force does equilibrium prevail. Human affairs operate similarly—weighing gravity against circumstances, acting only after achieving balance.

The sages of antiquity assessed timing and situations, weighing priorities to act only when aligned with principle. The Yijing states, "The Xun hexagram speaks of expediency," while the Analects note, "We may pursue the Dao together, but not necessarily exercise expediency together." Expediency may seem to violate norms yet accords with the greater Dao; it may appear unreasonable yet yields good outcomes, like cherry blossoms whose petals curve inversely yet clasp more tightly.

A filial son serves parents with gentle demeanor, fulfilling all duties. Yet if parents drown, he might grab their hair to rescue them—not disrespectfully, but to save lives. Insisting on etiquette during drowning would instead prove fatal; this is expediency born of necessity. Parental love is natural, yet upholding righteousness by sacrificing kin (大义灭亲) brings honor, for it serves greater justice. Thus when love and righteousness require balancing, if righteousness weighs heavier, kinship may be relinquished—as when Emperor Shun exiled his own brother.

This passage explores the tension between moral principles and expediency through several historical anecdotes.

The first story recounts how the Duke of Zhou (brother of King Wu of Zhou) executed his rebellious brother Guan Shu, and how Shi Que, a senior official of Wei, put to death his own son Shi Hou for participating in rebellion. As a loyal minister, Shi Que prioritized righteousness over family ties by eliminating his treasonous son.

The second episode occurs in Lu. Ji You, Duke Zhuang's full brother, and Shu Ya, his half-brother, contended over succession when the duke fell ill. Shu Ya sought to install their elder brother while the duke favored Ji You. To prevent Shu Ya's scheme, Ji You poisoned him during a banquet, yet later ensured Shu Ya's son inherited the title. These cases demonstrate how upholding greater righteousness may sometimes require temporarily violating familial ethics.

The third anecdote tells of Zheng merchant Xian Gao who, encountering Qin troops marching to attack Zheng during a business trip, cleverly posed as an envoy sent by Zheng's ruler bearing tribute. Believing Zheng was prepared, the Qin army accepted the gifts and withdrew. Though Xian Gao employed deception contrary to honesty, he averted national catastrophe.

The author concludes: When facing grave crimes like the extinction of ancestral sacrifices, minor transgressions such as forged edicts pale in significance. True righteousness resembles essential garments, while expediency functions like armor—protective but unsuitable for daily wear. Only sages can properly balance these: applying strategic flexibility ("quan") when the Dao proves unworkable, yet never abusing it. Expediency serves as temporary armor for emergencies, not constant attire. These subtleties elude all but genuine worthies.