《劉子》Vol. 9

This passage expounds on the principle that swift action is paramount in handling affairs. Through vivid examples, the author illustrates how speed is crucial whether solving problems or employing strategies.

The text begins with firefighting and rescue analogies: When a house catches fire, one must rush to extinguish it; when someone falls into water, immediate rescue is essential. If one leisurely digs a well to fetch water for firefighting, the house would burn to ashes before water is drawn; if one sluggishly rows a boat for rescue, the drowning person would have perished. Just as the value of a thousand-mile steed (qianlima) lies in covering vast distances daily—if it takes ten days to reach the destination, it becomes no different from a nag (numa). An arrow's potency depends on hitting its target directly—if it takes a full day to reach, it's as good as missing. Wisdom is precious precisely because it enables timely response; hindsight cleverness is no better than foolishness.

Two historical anecdotes follow: First, when Wu Qi (a renowned Warring States general) served as chancellor of Chu, nobles plotted to kill him during the interregnum between the king's death and the crown prince's arrival. Wu Qi swiftly hid behind the deceased king's corpse, and the nobles' arrows accidentally struck the royal body. Upon the prince's arrival, Wu Qi immediately reported their "desecration of the royal corpse"—a capital offense—thereby using the prince's authority to swiftly exact vengeance. Second, when Yang Hu (a retainer of the Ji family) was besieged by Lu forces, he tricked his guards into releasing him, only to immediately turn and wound his benefactor with a halberd upon escape. The author observes that Wu Qi's revenge succeeded through speed, while Yang Hu's delayed action in repaying kindness made him untrustworthy.

(Note: "Ji" refers to a legendary thousand-mile horse; "numa" means an inferior horse. Wu Qi was a famous Warring States general; Yang Hu served the Ji clan, a powerful Lu family. "Huanzi" denotes Ji Huanzi, head of the Ji clan.)

Zhang Lu (also known as Fan Ju) understood the importance of seizing opportunities. After being framed in the state of Wei, he endured three hundred lashes that nearly killed him, survived being thrown into a latrine, and later successfully took revenge on his enemy Xu Jia. Wei Ran, the prime minister of Qin, regretted not searching thoroughly before acting—his delay led to a shift in power that resulted in his own exile.

Chao Cuo, a Han dynasty official, breached a palace wall to take a shortcut. When Chancellor Shentu Jia sought to execute him first and report later, Chao Cuo preemptively confessed to Emperor Jing of Han. The emperor deemed wall-breaking a minor offense. By the time Shentu Jia submitted his accusation, the moment had passed—he died of frustration. This illustrates that wisdom requires decisive action; regret after the fact is as good as having no wisdom at all. Unused wisdom isn’t true wisdom, and delayed wisdom isn’t wisdom either. As the saying goes, "Strength lies in swiftness, wisdom in agility."

Chapter 44 discusses perspective: those overly fixated on details neglect the bigger picture, while those focused solely on the present overlook long-term consequences. The mind cannot split its attention—thus, comprehensive understanding becomes difficult. When looking up to thread a needle, one can’t see the sky; when looking down to catch lice, one can’t see the earth. It’s not that heaven and earth are small, but that vision is blocked by the needle or lice.

Thus, the wise know trivial matters hinder great affairs, and petty cleverness undermines true wisdom. They discard minutiae to maintain broad-mindedness. If someone nitpicks, you know they lack grand ambitions. Just as seeing the knees of a Jiao Yao tribesman (three feet tall) reveals they can’t compare to the legs of a Fang Feng tribesman (forty feet tall), or how ivory dwarfs boar tusks and a cat’s tail pales beside a leopard’s—from the small, we discern the great.

This passage illustrates through historical anecdotes how one's aspirations and talents determine the scale of their achievements.

The text cites examples like Xiang Yu and Han Xin: As a child, Xiang Yu refused to study calligraphy, believing knowing how to write his name sufficed, instead turning to swordsmanship to become a warrior who could defeat ten thousand foes. Han Xin showed no concern for daily meals—not because he disliked fine food, but because his grand ambitions made him indifferent to trivial matters. These figures all possessed such lofty aspirations that they refused to squander energy on minutiae.

In contrast, when Duke Wen of Jin's cook lost a piece of roasted meat, it was immediately noticed, and when the King of Handan found a peach missing from his garden, he detected it instantly—yet neither could foresee their own impending assassinations. This demonstrates how excessive focus on trivialities causes one to overlook the bigger picture.

The passage concludes with a fishing metaphor: Even with the exquisite skill of Zhan He (an ancient angling master), using silkworm thread for fishing line, a needle for a hook, and rice grains as bait to catch large fish in deep pools, such methods pale in comparison to the harvest of a fishing net. This analogy shows that perfecting minor techniques cannot compare to mastering grander methods.

The core message is this: Human energy is finite. Those who fixate excessively on details miss opportunities for greater accomplishments. Truly ambitious individuals often disregard minor matters, directing their efforts toward more significant pursuits.

Holding the mighty Fanruo bow, nocking arrows from Kuaiji, and possessing the archery skills of Puju—this describes the skilled hunters of Chu. Yet their harvest pales in comparison to those who use nets and traps. Why? Because archery is inherently limited. Consider the waters of rivers and lakes: even with floating corpses, people still drink from them, for the volume is vast. But water in a basin or jar—if stirred by a rat's tail—is promptly discarded in disgust, for the quantity is meager.

Thorny shrubs like the trifoliate orange branch out when only inches tall, while the lofty Yuzhang tree grows a hundred feet before its first fork. Why? Is it not because small things tend to multiply complications, while grand forms naturally unfold with simplicity? Thus, the magnanimous possess hearts as boundless as the ocean, while the petty-minded are inevitably consumed by trifles. From these observations, the scale of a person's vision and the breadth of their spirit can be clearly discerned.

Ages differ in simplicity and extravagance; customs vary between refinement and barbarism. They cannot be governed by the same methods nor measured by identical standards. Thus, in the era of the Three Sovereigns, rule was achieved through Wuwei (non-action), while during the Warring States period, statecraft relied on legalist tactics. Within the Central Plains, virtue and righteousness cultivated the people; beyond, governance and punishment awed the frontier tribes. The Book of Changes emphasizes adapting to the times; the Rites of Zhou prioritizes honoring local customs—the key lies in discerning the moment.

Just as Hou Ji of Zhou would not sow seeds amid frost-laden winds, nor would Ming of Cao craft fur robes in midsummer, for they understood the importance of timing. A hat-seller would not venture to Minyue (where people go bareheaded), nor a sandal-merchant to the barefoot tribes of Xianyi, for they recognized cultural differences. To aid the starving, a single pearl is less valuable than a handful of acorns and beans; to save the drowning, a jade disc is useless compared to a short rope. It is not that acorns and ropes are inherently precious, but that jewels cannot meet urgent needs. When a ship founders mid-river, even a gourd becomes worth a thousand gold—the worth of things is determined by circumstance.

When Qin besieged the Wei capital of Daliang, King Hui of Liang said to Mencius: "You, sir, have traveled a thousand li to our humble state. Now with Qin's army at our gates, do you have any strategy to repel them?" (This exchange illustrates how crises demand practical solutions over abstract theories.)

Mencius replied to King Hui of Liang: "In ancient times, when King Tai of Zhou (grandfather of King Wen) resided in Bin territory, the Di tribes (northern ethnic groups) invaded. King Tai offered jade and silk to seek peace, but failed. Unwilling to subject his people to the hardships of war, he led his clan away from Bin and relocated to Mount Qi. Why doesn't Your Majesty consider leaving Daliang now?" King Hui was greatly displeased by this suggestion.

Daliang was the treasure of Wei state, the foundation of the kingdom. Asking a ruler to abandon his capital was neither within his capability nor appropriate in any era. Though Mencius' words aligned with the Dao of benevolence and righteousness, they didn't meet King Hui's actual needs—like offering pearls to the starving or throwing jade to a drowning man, it was ill-timed.

When Duke Xiao of Qin consulted Shang Yang on statecraft, Shang Yang advocated legal reforms and strict punishments. After three years of implementation, the people prospered and the military grew powerful, making Qin formidable among the feudal states. By Mencius' standards of benevolence, King Tai's departure from Bin exemplified humane governance, yet it didn't suit that turbulent age; whereas Shang Yang's harsh laws appeared crude but achieved effective rule. This doesn't mean benevolence is ineffective—it simply shows different eras of simplicity and decadence require distinct governing methods. During the Warring States period of shifting alliances, the Dao of benevolence was difficult to fully implement.

A bright mirror reflects one's appearance, yet a blind man might use it to cover a jar; a jade hairpin adorns the hair, but an old woman might hang things with it. The fault lies not with the mirror or hairpin, but in their misuse. Pao Ding's (a legendary butcher from Spring and Autumn period) ox-carving skills met worldly needs, while Zhu Peng spent a fortune learning dragon-slaying arts (legendary techniques for killing dragons) that proved utterly useless after mastery. When skills defy practical needs, even the most exquisite techniques become worthless.

Therefore, when Laozi traveled to western tribes, he imitated sheep's bleating; when Yu the Great entered naked tribes, he cheerfully disrobed—not because they forgot ritual propriety, but to follow local customs. Mozi advocated frugality and condemned music, believing it distracted men from farming and women from weaving. Yet when visiting the Chu king, he wore brocade and played the sheng pipe—adapting to circumstance without betraying his nature. Duke Ai of Lu's Confucian dress code led to state decline (conquered by Jin); the Dai ruler's Mohist benevolent policies resulted in exile and death; King Yan of Xu practiced benevolence yet lost his kingdom—all proving governance must adapt to its time.

Lord Yan of the Chu State (a minister during the Spring and Autumn period) was destroyed by the Chu king precisely because he advocated the way of benevolence and righteousness. Similarly, Duke Kuai of Yan met his demise at the hands of his brother-in-law Zhao Xiangzi at Kuaiji when he promoted these Confucian virtues. Though these states appeared weakened and ultimately destroyed by rebellion, the deeper cause was their untimely implementation of benevolence and righteousness. The Confucian and Mohist teachings themselves weren't flawed—the problem lay in applying them at the wrong historical moment.

Regarding the formation of social customs: what we call "feng" (wind) refers to how natural environments shape people, while "su" (custom) denotes long-established habits. Different regions have varying qi (vital energy) characteristics—some gentle, some intense—and distinct vocal patterns, creating the "wind" of a place. When people dwell in a land long enough, their habits become second nature, forming "custom." These customs range from refined to crude, from pure to mixed. A wise ruler should transform customs, elevating popular practices and rectifying social habits. The governing class influences the people to form trends, which when imitated by the masses become established customs.

Regional customs vary dramatically: The people of Chu and Yue territories have fierce temperaments, fearing neither pain nor death. Zheng and Wei regions foster decadent atmospheres where people behave frivolously without restraint. Jin State preserves remnants of the virtuous customs from Emperor Yao and Shun's era, its people frugal to the point of stinginess. Under Duke Jing of Qi's influence, extravagance and competitive ostentation flourished in Qi.

The Grand Ji of Chen (eldest daughter of King Mu of Zhou, married to the Marquis of Chen), being childless, became obsessed with shamanistic rituals. Her constant sacrifices to ghosts and deities for offspring led the entire populace to embrace superstitious practices. When Prince Dan of Yan recruited Jing Ke to assassinate the Qin king, he even had palace concubines entertain guests—a practice later adopted by Yan people as hospitality, though it violated all ritual propriety.

Even stranger customs existed: In the Zhenmu Kingdom east of Yue, sons would carry their mothers into the wilderness after their fathers' deaths, calling them "ghost wives" unfit to cohabitate. Eldest sons would cut flesh from their mothers believing this would produce more male heirs. South of Chu in the Cannibal Kingdom, relatives consumed the deceased's flesh, burying only bones—a practice euphemistically called "fulfilling filial duty." West of Qin in Yiqu, people cremated their dead on pyres. These grotesque customs demonstrate how all social practices ultimately stem from influences set by those in power.

The text from Liu Zi discusses two main themes: first, the diverse funeral customs across different regions, and second, a dialectical reflection on gains and losses.

The first part describes several unusual burial practices: some cremate the deceased, calling the rising smoke "ascending to the clouds" (shengxia), while the northern Hu people of the Shegu tribe cast corpses into rivers, referring to it as "water immortals" (shuixian). The author considers these customs peculiar to remote regions. Ancient sage-kings, aiming to rectify such practices, established rituals and music to refine human nature, transforming customs to guide the world toward the proper Dao (the Way).

The second part delves into the relationship between advantage and harm. The author notes that seeking benefit and avoiding harm is human nature, yet people often focus only on superficial gains and losses. True wisdom lies in recognizing that harm may conceal benefit, and loss may contain gain. For example, using poison to treat internal heat or lancets to cure abscesses may cause minor pain but eliminates greater suffering. Conversely, overindulgence in food and momentary pleasures may seem comfortable but plants the seeds of future calamity.

Vivid examples illustrate this point: using calamus to repel fleas only attracts centipedes; applying alum to relieve toothache corrodes the roots. One might endure a chest tumor rather than risk surgery or bear a scorpion sting rather than amputate a foot—not because they enjoy suffering, but fearing the cure's consequences. A thirsty person won't drink poisoned wine, nor will a thief grab gold from a furnace, knowing immediate gains bring greater harm.

The text concludes with two contrasts: even the notorious robber Zhi wouldn't pick up the legendary Suihou Pearl lying on the ground, and the lecher Jingyang would ignore the beauty Xishi on the road—not from lack of desire, but because imminent danger outweighs distant temptation. A Qi man once displayed exquisite brocade in the market, only to have it stolen publicly, proving that flaunting benefit invites disaster.

This passage reveals the profound truth of how "benefit and harm" and "fortune and misfortune" mutually transform through several vivid stories.

A thief caught stealing brocade defended himself: "I only saw the fabric, not the person." Such people resemble greedy fledglings, focusing solely on immediate gains while ignoring danger. Confucius once observed a bird-catcher who only caught yellow-beaked sparrows. The trapper explained: "The small birds, greedy for bait, are easily caught, while the clever larger birds, being less greedy, escape capture."

Zhuangzi, walking through a chestnut orchard, spotted an unusual magpie and prepared to shoot it with his slingshot. Suddenly realizing: "This is the king's orchard—if caught stealing chestnuts, the punishment would be severe," he put away his weapon. This illustrates how the wise consider risks when seeing benefits, while fools forget all caution when tempted by gain.

Fortune and misfortune grow like branches from the same root. After King Helü of Wu conquered Yue, he extravagantly built the Gusu Terrace—only to be destroyed by King Goujian of Yue seven years later. What initially appeared as misfortune—Goujian's crushing defeat at Mount Kuaiji—later transformed into his dominance around Lake Tai. Similarly, the powerful Rong King who destroyed King You of Zhou ultimately fell victim to the slain king's descendants, murdered beneath a wine vessel. These examples prove: what seems fortune may become disaster, and apparent misfortune may turn to blessing—the key lies in discerning the laws governing such transformations.

When Chen Pian fled his homeland, he thought it was a misfortune, but it ultimately brought him unexpected blessings. The nobleman from Chen who escaped to Qi was not only received with great hospitality by the Marquis of Qi but also became his son-in-law—what seemed a calamity turned into good fortune.

The transformation of misfortune and blessing is unpredictable. In ancient times, a family in Song had a black ox that gave birth to a white calf (considered an auspicious omen in antiquity), yet they first suffered the misfortune of their son going blind. They consulted Confucius, who assured them it was a sign of good fortune. Later, when they sacrificed the white calf in a ritual, the son lost his left eye as well. When Chu later invaded Song, all the men who went to war perished—except for this family, whose father and son survived due to their blindness.

Similarly, an old man in the north lost his stallion, which fled to the land of the Hu people. Three years later, it returned leading a herd of Hu horses—an apparent blessing. Yet this led to his son breaking his leg while riding. Later, when the Hu invaded, all able-bodied men were conscripted and died in battle, while this family survived because the son’s disability exempted him from service. Thus, disaster ultimately became their fortune.

When faced with ominous signs, accumulating virtue through good deeds can turn misfortune into blessing. Conversely, ignoring auspicious omens while failing to act virtuously can transform good fortune into calamity. During the reign of King Wuding of Shang, mulberry and paper-mulberry trees (considered inauspicious) suddenly grew in the royal court. The court diviner interpreted this as a sign of the kingdom’s downfall. Wuding, alarmed, devoted himself to self-cultivation, and eventually the trees withered, neighboring states paid tribute, and the Shang dynasty was revitalized. In contrast, during King Zhou’s (Di Xin) reign, a sparrow nesting in the city walls gave birth to a raptor—an omen the diviner proclaimed meant "small giving rise to great, the state will prosper." But due to Zhou’s tyranny, the dynasty collapsed.

Thus, supernatural phenomena are Heaven’s warnings to rulers, while strange dreams serve as reminders to the common people. With virtuous governance, even the direst omens can be averted.

The Liu Zi scripture reveals the calamities brought by greed and miserliness through several parables and stories.

When auspicious signs appear, one should not indulge in excessive joy but maintain reverence and caution; when encountering ominous omens, one should not fear but focus more on cultivating virtue (De). Only then can one receive divine protection, dispel misfortune, and welcome blessings.

Seeking petty gains leads to losing greater benefits, while hoarding small sums invites major disasters. The text provides two examples: First, the ruler of Shu coveted the fake golden ox carved from stone offered by Qin, opening mountain roads to welcome it, only to have his kingdom destroyed by the Qin army taking advantage. Second, after the rebellion of Bai Gong Sheng of Chu, he amassed treasures but refused to share them with his subordinates, ultimately meeting defeat and death. Both stories illustrate how chasing small advantages causes the loss of more essential things.

Finally, two greedy creatures serve as metaphors: A mythical beast called "Taotie" (gluttony) died from internal stagnation because it constantly sharpened its horns seeking greater ferocity. In the southern land of Yan, a bird called "Xiao" similarly met destruction through its own greed. These examples warn that excessive desire ultimately becomes self-destructive.

This passage illustrates the principle of "like attracts like" through natural and human phenomena, while warning against the calamities brought by greed and stinginess.

Regarding the "tu xiao" bird (an owl), it nurtures its young in the nest, yet when the fledglings grow, they devour their mother before taking flight. Just as the Book of Songs says, "The mynah sings when it arrives, but weeps when it departs," foretelling an auspicious beginning followed by misfortune. The author uses this as a metaphor for the Marquis of Shu welcoming Qin’s cattle only to invite disaster, or Lord Bai hoarding wealth only to meet a violent end—just like the mother owl raising her young, only to be consumed in return. The wise should discern the turning point between fortune and calamity, understanding the root causes of success and failure, neither harming themselves through greed nor inviting ruin through miserliness. Laozi said, "The more one accumulates, the greater the loss," while the Book of Rites teaches, "He who can gather wealth must also know how to disperse it"—both admonitions urging contentment and the abandonment of greed.

Chapter 50 specifically discusses the law of resonance between things: like phenomena respond to one another. For example:

• When the copper mountains of Shu collapsed, the bronze bells of Jin rang without cause.
• When the waters of Zi and Li (two rivers with distinct tastes) mingled, the gourmet Zhang Hua could still discern their differences.
• Flying creatures belong to Yang, while hibernating creatures belong to Yin.
• Deer shed their antlers at the summer solstice, while elk shed theirs at the winter solstice.
• When the moon wanes, clams diminish (ancient belief held that pearls formed during the dark moon, turning into clams at the new moon).
• When qilin (unicorns) fight, solar eclipses occur; when whales die, comets appear.
• When the east wind blows, wine overflows; when silkworms spin, the Shang string snaps.
• When new grain arrives, old grain dwindles.
• Bo Yi’s well-digging stirred the dragon’s Qi, filling the heavens with mist.
• A tiger’s roar in the valley can summon winds across ten thousand miles.
• A yang-sui (ancient solar mirror) can focus the sun’s fire.

These phenomena all demonstrate the subtle resonance between things of the same kind—a natural law governing all under heaven.

This passage describes the phenomena of mutual resonance between natural phenomena. When sunlight is reflected through a bronze mirror (yang-sui), it can ignite flames; when moonlight is reflected through a crystal sphere (fang-zhu), it generates mist—both are results of sympathetic resonance between things of the same kind.

Just as the moon approaching the Ji constellation (one of the 28 lunar mansions) brings wind, and nearing the Bi constellation brings rain. When the heavens are about to stir up winds, though dust has yet to rise from the ground, the Yunri bird (a snake-eating fowl resembling a chicken) will cry in advance; before rain clouds gather, ants and earthworms will relocate beforehand. Nest-dwelling birds anticipate wind strength, while burrowing insects sense impending rain.

When the Great White Star (Venus) shines intensely, roosters crow at night; when the Fire Star (Mars) blazes brightly, horses grow restless at dawn. This is because roosters belong to the Dui trigram (representing metal), and metal governs slaughter, while horses belong to the Li trigram (representing fire), and fire governs martial force. Such omens often foretell the outbreak of war, much like displaying severed heads on weapons as a warning.

When armored warhorses grow restless, other animals follow suit. Frogs croak in the fields, and turtles respond from the deep pools; when the male flying serpent calls from upwind, the female answers from downwind, enabling conception and form. These subtle resonances are as natural as echoes responding to shouts or shadows following bodies.

It is like adding kindling to a fire—the dry parts ignite first; or pouring water on level ground—the damp spots absorb first. Pluck a beast’s horn, and its eyes will turn; move a boat, and ripples will spread. All things resonate through shared attributes; spirits transform through the circulation of Qi. None of these can be altered by human effort.