《太平兩同書》

The first chapter "On Nobility and Humility" in the Taiping Liangtong Shu (Book of Universal Peace and Dual Unity) states:

All beings between heaven and earth originate from the differentiation of primordial Qi (vital energy). Within this Daoist cosmological framework, yang represents nobility while yin signifies humility. After the establishment of the Three Powers (heaven, earth, and humanity), the elevation of heaven and lowering of earth became natural patterns. Just as tortoises and dragons lead the scaled creatures, qilin and phoenix reign among birds, gold and jade embody the essence of minerals, while lingzhi mushrooms and pine trees represent botanical treasures—these natural hierarchies reveal inherent distinctions between the noble and humble.

These numinous beings are valued for their unique qualities: tortoises and dragons commune with divine spirits (Shen), qilin and phoenix embody benevolence, gold and jade radiate brilliance, while lingzhi and pines exemplify purity. Yet among all beings, humans hold supreme nobility. When individuals fail in self-governance, they must honor the virtuous—hence sages govern common people. Historical eras elevate the worthy as rulers, while those lacking capability become subjects.

However, social status isn't absolute: rulers without De (Virtue) like King Zhou of Shang command no true respect, while humble figures like Confucius (exiled during his travels) or Bo Yi (who chose starvation over compromise) demonstrate that outward poverty doesn't diminish inner nobility. For millennia, emperors have revered Confucius and Bo Yi's character, while even children scorn the names of King Zhou or Duke Jing of Qi—proving nobility isn't determined by position alone.

Monarchs earn reverence through cultivated De. Without Virtue, how do they differ from common creatures? Wise rulers labor diligently (rising before dawn to administer, welcoming all counsel) just as the Yellow Emperor sought Guangchengzi's wisdom at Mount Kongtong, or Emperor Yao visited recluses by the Ying River—if even hermits could make emperors bow, how much more should heaven-appointed rulers fear their people's contempt?

The core teaching is: Never fret over lacking status, but over lacking De; never worry about humble position, but about wavering commitment to the Dao (Way). As the Yijing (Book of Changes) implies (though the full quotation isn't cited here), the cultivation of Virtue remains paramount.

The Taiping Liangtong Shu expounds the core principles of governing a state and cultivating one's character:

The first section discusses "the sage's greatest treasure":

What the sage values most is position (referring to the ruler's throne), and what maintains that position is benevolence and virtue (De). Without De, how could one maintain such position? Therefore, ancient kings were diligent and cautious day and night—not merely for reputation, but truly out of fear of losing the sage's greatest treasure and disgracing their ancestors' blessings. While high status is inherently honorable, it cannot endure without the Dao; lowly status is inherently humiliating, and even with strength, it's difficult to escape. If one cultivates virtue without seeking prominence, prominence will naturally follow; if one acts without benevolence while trying to escape lowliness, lowliness will cling inevitably. Consider Yu Shun (ancient virtuous ruler), who rose from humble origins to establish a golden age, or Jie of Xia (tyrant) who, despite his exalted position, was reviled and exiled by the people. Danfu of Zhou (grandfather of King Wen) moved to Mount Qi to avoid conflict—he didn't seek nobility, yet laid the Zhou dynasty's foundation. Qin Ershi (Second Emperor of Qin) mocked Yao and Shun's simplicity—he didn't resign himself to baseness, yet swiftly lost his kingdom. Thus we see: the noble may fall, the humble may rise—those who chase status fail, while the virtuous naturally receive heaven's favor. Hence Laozi's saying "the Dao is revered and De is precious" expresses this truth.

The second section examines "strength and weakness":

Strength isn't innate—it emerges through the support of the weak; weakness isn't destiny—it appears through opposition to the strong. Thus the weak submit to the strong, and the strong are honored by the weak: this is nature's pattern. But true strength isn't muscular might, nor is weakness mere timidity—the key lies in De, not brute force. Consider metal: hardest yet brittle and hard to mend; water: softest yet unbreakable—water's softness reveals its strength, metal's hardness its fragility. Like Yan Ying (virtuous Qi statesman) who was physically small... (subsequent examples illustrate the power of De through historical figures)

The Taiping Liangtong Shu passage illustrates the dialectical relationship between De (Virtue) and force through historical comparisons:

Consider how Yan Ying, the diminutive prime minister of Qi, and twelve-year-old Gan Luo who became Qin's chancellor, contrast with the physically imposing figures like Chunru of Lu—so tall he filled a carriage—or Changwan of Song whose strength could tear leather. Yet ultimately, the mighty Chunru and Changwan perished for lack of wisdom, while the small-statured Yan Ying and youthful Gan Luo governed through intellect. Does this not demonstrate the distinction between the power of De and mere physical might?

The Dao of heaven operates such that extreme vigor inevitably turns to regret (kangji zhi hui), while humility in lowly positions achieves true honor. What we call De manifests as compassionate benevolence, whereas force represents violent coercion. When benevolent governance is practiced, even celestial spirits and earthly deities align with it—how much more so the common people? But employ force, and even one's kin will become estranged, let alone distant subjects. Thus De forms the foundation all people rely upon, while force remains merely the brute's crude instrument.

Take King Zhou who could bend iron barehanded—the people feared him like tigers and wolves. Compare this to Emperor Yao who couldn't even fill out his robes properly, yet the people loved him as parents. Would anyone claim tigers surpass humans in strength, or that parents are weaker than children? The principle of true strength is evident here.

Ancient enlightened rulers understood well: one cannot conquer hearts through violence, nor achieve greatness via cruelty. They cultivated abundant De, governing with benevolent flexibility (rouren). Without excessive words they earned trust; through Wuwei (non-action) they educated all within the Four Seas. Thus distant regions submitted willingly—far beyond mere national allegiance.

Alas for tyrants who abandoned De to rely solely on force! Indulging unbridled desires, their Herculean strength couldn't even preserve their own lives. Ultimately they brought dynastic collapse and ancestral temple ruin, becoming eternal laughingstocks. Is this not the bitter fruit of prioritizing force over De?

The Taiping Liangtong Shu discusses the relationship between rulers and the people, as well as the impact of frugality and extravagance on a nation.

Laozi said: "To conquer others is strength, but to conquer oneself is true power." The fate of the people depends on the ruler, while the ruler's security relies on the people. The people are like the feet of the world, while the ruler is its head. Yet no matter how numerous the people are, they cannot escape suffering, and no matter how exalted the ruler is, they may still be overthrown—the problem lies not with the feet but with the head.

Just as floating grass drifts when the water moves and grass bends when the wind blows, during the reigns of Yao and Shun, every household could receive rewards, while under Jie and Zhou, every household faced the threat of execution. Were the people truly wise under virtuous rulers and foolish under tyrants? The key lies in the ruler's governance.

The most beneficial way to govern is through frugality, while the most harmful is extravagance. Though the sun and moon shine upon the world, there are still places they do not reach—yet a ruler who governs with frugality and Wuwei (non-action) benefits the people universally, with virtue greater than that of the sun and moon. Though jackals and wolves are vicious, there are still creatures they do not harm—yet an extravagant ruler who meddles excessively inflicts suffering worse than that of wild beasts.

The ancient sage-kings valued frugality: earthen steps and thatched roofs, coarse clothing, rejecting rare treasures, abolishing useless luxuries, and reducing taxes and labor demands. By restraining their own desires and preserving the people’s lives, they brought joy to the world, ensuring peace and prosperity. In contrast, ancient tyrants pursued extravagance: jade terraces and ivory beds, fine silks and delicacies, hoarding exotic treasures, and imposing heavy taxes and forced labor. Indulging their own cravings at the cost of the people’s lives led to unbearable suffering—when the people no longer fear death, why would they fear rebellion?

When the people live in comfort, they naturally desire stability; when they cannot survive, even the Son of Heaven faces peril. If a ruler seeks their own security, how can they not first consider the well-being of the people?

The Taiping Liangtong Shu primarily explores the reciprocal relationship between rulers and the people, as well as the importance of reverence.

The first section discusses the dialectics of gain and loss:

When the common people live in stability, yet rulers worry about potential unrest without reflecting on their own failings, this cannot be considered wisdom. It's like cutting open one's belly to offer food—this doesn't constitute a fine meal, nor does warming someone's feet count as moving their heart. The mouth and heart exist to serve the body (feet and belly). If the belly is slit open, how can the mouth remain unharmed? If feet require warmth, how can the heart be exempt? A ruler's nobility entirely depends on the support of the people. If all the people benefit, how could the ruler suffer loss? If the people are all harmed, how could the ruler gain? Thus, Yao and Shun sacrificed their own interests for the people, yet achieved sagehood and longevity, while Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang (Gui Xin) harmed others for personal gain, only to bring about their own destruction. What seems like self-sacrifice actually benefits oneself, while what appears self-serving ultimately backfires—this principle is abundantly clear.

The second section critiques the dangers of greed:

Life is paramount, while personal desires are secondary. If rulers can relinquish their own pleasures to relieve the masses, forsaking private gain to bestow universal kindness, they will become as steadfast as the Southern Peak and as constant as the North Star—who in the world would harm them? Conversely, insatiable greed—starving the people while feeding dogs and horses with grain, clothing people in hides while donning brocade oneself, pursuing empty splendor at the expense of substance—is like thorns blocking the road or whales trapped in boiling seas. Who in the world would assist such a ruler? This is why Laozi said, "The Dao of Heaven diminishes excess to supplement deficiency."

The fourth chapter on "Reverence and Disdain" emphasizes the mind of awe:

In antiquity, human hearts were as simple as plants, trees, and wild creatures. Later, sages established the distinctions between ruler and subject, noble and base through teachings of ritual, music, benevolence, and righteousness. Among rituals, nothing surpasses reverence: serving Heaven with reverence invites the descent of spirits; governing with reverence brings harmony among the people. But to slight Heaven...

The Taiping Liangtong Shu passage discusses how a ruler's attitude toward others directly impacts the nation's prosperity or decline. The core message is:

When a ruler governs with arrogance, the people face peril. Subordinates who lack reverence cannot properly serve their superiors, just as irreverent leaders fail to command their ministers. The Yijing (Book of Changes) uses "mountains hidden beneath the earth" as a symbol of humility, while Laozi employs the metaphor of "rivers and seas occupying the lowest position" to illustrate how rulers should emulate valleys in their capacity to embrace all.

The text provides contrasting historical examples: Enlightened rulers like King Wen of Zhou honoring Duan Ganmu, or King Zhao of Yan building the Golden Terrace to recruit Guo Wei, attracted multitudes of talented individuals. In contrast, foolish monarchs who treated sages as weeds and commoners as livestock—such as Duke Huan of Qi's arrogance at the Kuiqiu Summit or Emperor Gaozu of Han's disrespect toward Zhao's envoy—invited widespread rebellion.

The essential principle is: Respecting others isn't self-abasement but wise governance; contempt gains no advantage, only resentment. Honor one person, and ten thousand rejoice; slight one person, and ten thousand resent. Yet many crave respect without cultivating respectable conduct, and detest disrespect while perpetuating offensive behavior.

The passage concludes by emphasizing the sovereign's role as the world's model—every word and deed recorded by historians. A virtuous act shines like auspicious clouds, celebrated universally; a misdeed darkens like a solar eclipse, mourned by all. Thus rulers must exercise utmost circumspection, unlike ordinary people who may act casually. When Tian Zifang was asked "How should the wealthy and powerful treat others?" the answer lay precisely in these principles.

This scripture conveys two main teachings:

The first layer uses contrasts between the arrogant and the humble to illustrate the Dao (Way) of conduct:

When the wealthy and noble become prideful, feudal lords lose their states and ministers forfeit their estates. If the poor and lowly act contrary to proper principles or speak inappropriately, one should distance from them as if discarding worn shoes. Just as tigers and leopards shatter when falling from cliffs while ants drift safely with the wind, different positions yield different outcomes. The Duke of Zhou (son of King Wen) worked diligently, even interrupting meals to attend to state affairs, while Yan Ying's servant behaved arrogantly - this exemplifies the distinction between noble and petty individuals. The inchworm contracts before advancing, raptors descend before striking; this embodies Laozi's teaching that "by putting oneself last, one comes to the front."

The second layer employs pine trees and ice as metaphors for nurturing life:

Pines that could touch the clouds will wither quickly if nourished with dung and saltwater; ice that could endure melts not even in midsummer when stored in shaded wells or dark peaks. This isn't their intrinsic nature, but results from different cultivation methods. Humans are more fragile than pines - how can we avoid decay without proper care? More transient than ice - how can we not attain longevity with proper nourishment? Lifespan depends entirely on the quality of cultivation.

Yet people crave food, drink and sensual pleasures, indulging like Lord Xinling and Emperor Hui who reveled through nights, unaware that excess harms life while temperance, though seemingly self-depriving, actually benefits health. Just as pines wither with dung and ice preserves by avoiding sun, the Dao of nurturing life lies in proper methods.

The Taiping Liangtong Shu expounds on the principle of tempering desires and nurturing life:

Those who indulge in sensual pleasures and reckless behavior may appear to be pampering themselves, yet they often meet untimely deaths, buried beneath the yellow springs—this is ultimately the greatest disservice to oneself. In contrast, Daoist adepts like Laozi and Pengzu (the legendary immortal of longevity) cultivated methods for prolonging life, observed dietary prohibitions, and harmonized their hun and po (Daoist terms referring to the spiritual and corporeal aspects of being). Though seemingly strict with themselves, they attained extended lifespans and ultimately ascended as transcendents—this is true self-nourishment.

Material things are meant to sustain life, yet excessive pursuit of them becomes the root of demise. Just as a lamp requires oil and trees need water, flooding a sapling with an entire river or fueling a single lamp with a whole hu-measure of oil inevitably leads to destruction. Human life is finite, yet desires are boundless—how can chasing endless desires with limited vitality not end in suffering?

Thus the Yijing emphasizes dietary moderation, and the Book of Rites establishes boundaries between genders—both embody profound wisdom. Even emperors possessing supreme power and wealth cannot preserve their own organs and limbs without understanding life-nurturing principles, let alone external possessions. Using jade to strike frogs or pearls to shoot sparrows—abandoning the precious to pursue the worthless—all would deem this absurd. How much greater then is the folly of trading one's most valuable life for fleeting desires?

The Yellow River churns with silt, yet the ocean remains undisturbed; gales uproot trees, but mountains stand unshaken. Desires may delude petty minds but cannot sway noble persons. When Confucius refused to drink from the Thief's Spring (symbolizing moral integrity), or when Zheng Zigong coveted meat broth enough to stain his fingers; when Liuxia Hui remained unmoved by a woman in his lap, while Song Huafu endangered his life for beauty; when the Duke of Zhou composed the Alcohol Admonition urging temperance, while King Zhou fell through drunken excess; when virtuous consorts declined sharing the imperial carriage to avoid impropriety, while licentious women brazenly flaunted shame—these all reveal the consequences of differing moral discipline.

When spirit (shen) is overextended, it withers; when the body is overworked, it declines. To expect longevity while exhausting both has never been known. If rulers could comprehend this principle...

This passage expounds the principles of self-cultivation. It conveys that if one can internally nourish their spiritual vitality (Shen-Qi, referring to the life energy within the human body) while externally restraining excessive desires, constantly guarding against indulgent thoughts of pleasure, and following the teachings of health preservation, they can maintain an immortal-like longevity and become a person of wisdom and enlightenment. Is this not a sublime state indeed?

As Laozi (Lao-shi) once said: "By relinquishing the self, one preserves life" – this precisely illustrates the principle being discussed.

(Note: This excerpt comes from the first volume of Taiping Liangtong Shu, embodying the Daoist health preservation philosophy of "internally nurturing Shen-Qi while externally moderating desires." It emphasizes achieving longevity and spiritual clarity through internal cultivation and external temperance.)

Taiping Liangtong Shu Volume 2: On Governing Order and Chaos (Chapter 6)

The key to governing a nation's stability and managing chaos lies in the proper application of "civil governance" (wen) and "military force" (wu). Ancient sages created written contracts to facilitate communication of subtle matters and crafted bows and arrows to deter disobedience—these two tools have coexisted since antiquity. Civil governance achieves stability, while military force suppresses disorder. Yet civil governance alone cannot quell turmoil, just as military force alone cannot sustain lasting peace.

Preventing chaos requires judicious use of military power, while persuasion and governance depend on civil education—like alternating between hands and feet, or taking turns riding carts and boats. When Emperor Gaozu of Han grew arrogant about his military achievements, Lu Jia admonished him with New Discourses to study civil governance. When the Duke of Lu attended a summit, Confucius warned him to maintain defenses—both cases demonstrate this principle.

True civil governance guides people through Dao and De (Virtue), emphasizing inner sincerity over superficial ornamentation. Authentic military power demonstrates authority through self-preservation rather than empty displays. Relying solely on bluster is like the Wu State's elite troops revealing their weakness through ostentation, while focusing only on appearances resembles Lu's scholars wearing Confucian robes yet failing to prevent national decline.

The First Emperor's Great Wall construction and endless campaigns exhausted the people, allowing Chen Sheng to rise—the root disaster lay in militaristic posturing. Wang Mang's extravagant Ling Terrace construction, coercive ritual reforms, and oppressive taxation provoked popular uprisings led by Liu Xiu—his downfall began with artificial embellishment. The First Emperor's military rule resembled a potter obsessing over size while ignoring fragile walls; Wang Mang's civil governance was like a carpenter showcasing intricate carvings while neglecting structural weakness. Both failed by fixating on one extreme, lacking true statecraft.

Effective civil governance must be simple and comprehensible—simplicity facilitates implementation, guiding people toward shame and virtue. Genuine military power requires restraint—restraint ensures enduring defense, where well-prepared forces prevail effortlessly. When education flourishes, harmony reigns among the people; when military preparedness is balanced, external threats subside. Then govern through Wuwei (non-action) and nurture the populace with benevolent De (Virtue).

This passage from Taiping Liangtong Shu discusses the art of governance, with its core thesis being that governing methods themselves are neither inherently good nor bad—what matters is how the ruler employs them.

The original text uses comparative examples to illustrate how sagely and foolish rulers applying the same governing principles (the "civil and martial ways") yield entirely different outcomes. Just as Bo Yi invented well-digging and Suirenshi discovered fire-making by drilling wood—innovations originally beneficial—the same technologies became instruments of harm when used by the unscrupulous: Zhi Bo (a Jin state official) flooded Zhao’s city with water, and Dong Zhuo (a Han dynasty warlord) burned the imperial palaces with fire.

The civil and martial ways of governance are like tools: armies and ritual systems are instruments of statecraft, yet Zhang Han (a Qin general) used military force to fracture the Qin dynasty, while Tian Chang (a Qi usurper) exploited benevolence and righteousness to seize power. The fault lies not in the tools themselves, but in whether the ruler maintains control. Just as herding horses requires first removing threats, and driving sheep demands timely guidance, the state of Lu failed to eliminate the Three Huan families (its overbearing ministers) and thus fragmented, while Jin could not restrain its Six Ministers (powerful aristocrats) and saw its territory divided.

Quoting Confucius, the author highlights the crux: "When the Dao prevails under heaven, rites, music, and military campaigns are decided by the Son of Heaven alone." The passage concludes with the metaphor "water can both float and capsize a boat," emphasizing how ministers may either support or endanger their ruler. The Han dynasty thrived by employing three exceptional talents (Xiao He, Zhang Liang, and Han Xin), while the Jin state collapsed under the dominance of its Six Ministers. This demonstrates that governance ultimately hinges on the ruler’s ability to properly delegate authority and maintain control.

The Taiping Liangtong Shu expounds profound principles on the art of employing talent and checks on power:

Fan Li (Tao Zhugong) helped Yue achieve hegemony, while the Tian clan's rise led to Qi's downfall—though both employed capable individuals, the outcomes diverged completely. This reflects the inscrutability of human nature: some appear reverent yet harbor arrogance; others speak warmly but act contrarily. Some disdain integrity while glorifying greed; others maintain virtue in poverty but succumb to corruption when wealthy. There are those who commit grave errors in pursuit of change, or doubt themselves despite high positions—forgetting righteousness at the sight of profit, evading blame only to create greater conflicts. Such complexities defy divination and elude even supernatural judgment.

While sharp weapons matter, human hearts prove harder to gauge. Entrusting vital authority to unpredictable individuals—relying solely on hearsay without discerning truth—may bring success like Huo Guang's capable administration or failure like Wang Mang's treacherous reign. Historical precedents reveal contrasts: though both royal relatives, Guanshu proved traitorous while the Duke of Zhou remained loyal; though both imperial in-laws, Dou Ying upheld righteousness while Lü Lu embodied villainy. Among meritorious officials, Wang Ling stayed obedient while Ying Bu rebelled; among old companions, Fan Kuai remained steadfast while Lu Wan defected.

Zhang Tang excelled at documents yet deceived superiors; Zhufu Yan's eloquence masked perverse actions. Chen Ping's brilliance required oversight; Han Xin's genius demanded restraint against his ungovernable nature. Governing without talent is impossible, yet talent invites disorder—the crux lies in harnessing ability while preventing chaos.

Just as hair needs daily combing and nails monthly trimming—neglected nails hinder function and unkempt hair breeds tangles—these body parts, though mindless, require maintenance. How much more so with ministers, who aren't extensions of one's body yet whose hearts shift unpredictably? Entrusting them with judgment demands utmost vigilance.

As distant journeys require swift steeds, statecraft demands worthy ministers. Yet even the gentlest steed needs reins, and the most reliable official cannot wield unchecked power. Thus leaders must master both employing talent and balancing authority.

(Note: Historical figures like Huo Guang, Wang Mang, Guanshu, and the Duke of Zhou illustrate the complexities of personnel management through contrasting cases.)

When driving horses, if the reins are pulled too tight, the horse will stamp in place and refuse to advance; if the reins are left too slack, the horse will grow arrogant and indulge in comfort. Only a master like Zaofu (the legendary charioteer) can achieve the balance of neither slackening to the point of indulgence nor tightening to hinder progress. Similarly, in governing ministers, if control is too harsh, they become fearful and unsettled; if power is too lax, they grow negligent and rebellious. Only a sage understands the subtle art of maintaining order without oppression and discipline without unrest.

If one fears the horse might bolt and abandons it to walk, long journeys become impossible; if one distrusts ministers and monopolizes power, the realm becomes ungovernable. Knowing a horse can carry you yet refusing the reins means you cannot stop it from running wild; knowing ministers can serve yet relinquishing control means you cannot prevent their misconduct. Xiang Yu’s failure to employ Fan Zeng (his strategist) was like abandoning the horse to walk; Emperor Xian of Han, though supported by Cao Cao, was like riding without holding the reins—how could they not fail? Thus Confucius said, "Authority and titles must never be lent to others"—this is the principle at stake.

[On Truth and Falsehood, Chapter Eight]

A ruler cannot govern alone but must rely on worthy ministers. Human hearts are hard to govern, requiring careful discernment. Only by withdrawing petty men and elevating the noble can good governance be achieved. Yet good and evil arise together, truth and falsehood tangle like shadow and form, like lips parted leaving teeth cold—where there is truth, falsehood inevitably follows. Throughout history, emperors seeking to rule well have humbly sought wise counsel, yet often rewarded mediocrity; they have loathed corruption, yet often punished the virtuous—this is the bitterest regret of enlightened rulers.

The pheasant is no divine bird, yet merchants sell it as a phoenix; the deer is an auspicious creature, yet hunters mistake it for a roe. Though phoenixes and qilin are documented in texts, and roe and pheasants are easily confused, at least they can be distinguished. But the line between loyalty and deceit is far harder: the seemingly dull may be upright ministers, the seemingly clever may be flatterers; the pure-hearted often stand apart, the outspoken often provoke the ruler. These inner qualities cannot be seen with the eye nor judged by hearsay. To discern them as clearly as silver from lead or the waters of the Zi and Min rivers (ancient streams with distinct tastes) is a rarity across ten thousand generations. Thus Wu’s reliance on Taizai Pi led to its downfall, and Qi’s favor of Yi Ya brought calamity—both cases of failing to distinguish truth from falsehood.

This passage expounds the principles for discerning genuine talent and employing people wisely.

History provides numerous examples: Wu Prime Minister Pi killed loyal minister Wu Zixu; Lu State dismissed Confucius and entrusted governance to the Ji clan; Qin executed renowned general Bai Qi while favoring Marquis Ying; Zhao trusted Guo Kai but murdered Li Mu; Bian He presented precious jade only to have his feet amputated by the King of Chu; while the North Suburb scholar played the yu flute for free meals yet enjoyed Qi State's official salary. These cases demonstrate that those praised by the masses may not truly be virtuous, nor are the criticized necessarily wicked. Those close to me may lack worthiness, while the distant need not be inferior.

Consider: When Emperor Yao controlled floods, the masses recommended Bo Gun, yet his efforts failed; when Wei attacked Zhongshan, the crowd belittled Yue Yang, yet he triumphed; Deng Tong enjoyed Emperor Wen of Han's favor but lacked Fu Yue's capability; Qu Yuan was exiled by the King of Chu yet bore no guilt comparable to Gonggong. This shows public opinion isn't always correct, nor are personal judgments necessarily sound.

Thus, wise rulers consult broadly and deliberate carefully, contemplating difficulties before ease, using outward signs to probe subtleties. They ensure the rewarded feel no shame in their honors, while the guilty cannot evade responsibility. Just as fine horses are tested by running—not relying solely on Bole's (Sun Yang's) recommendation—or blades proven by cutting without needing Feng Huzi's appraisal, ambiguous candidates should be assigned tasks to reveal their true nature.

Ancient sage-kings employed these methods: sending candidates afar to test loyalty, keeping them near to observe diligence; soliciting strategies to gauge wisdom, assigning complex tasks to assess competence; studying their conduct in daily interactions, examining integrity through material temptations; evaluating benevolence in hardship and trustworthiness in crisis. Comprehensive assessments like Jiang Taigong's (Lü Shang's) eight examination methods or Gao Yao's nine virtue standards were employed. Thus, just as white cloth cannot be dyed black, jade remains untainted in mud, and green pines stand resilient in frost—frauds are naturally eliminated, allowing true talent to emerge.

Confucius said: "When everyone praises something, we must examine it carefully; when everyone condemns something, we must also examine it carefully." This speaks precisely to the principle at hand.

On the discussion of "sameness" and "difference":

Sounds of the same frequency resonate with each other; energies of the same nature attract one another. When a tiger roars in the valley, the mountain winds arise in response; when a serpent dances in the hills, the mountain mists rise to meet it. Such is the natural order of things.

Creatures of different species may behave similarly despite their differing natures. The toad transforms when pecked by sparrows (referring to being eaten), yet toads don't play with sparrows; the mole rat evolves from common rats, yet doesn't keep company with them. This demonstrates how inherent differences manifest.

Fathers and sons, brothers by blood—none lack closeness, yet their minds may differ; rulers and ministers, friends by choice—none lack distance, yet their hearts may align. Consider:

• The blind Gusou was foolish while his son Shun became sage-like
• The robber Zhi was greedy while Liuxia Hui remained incorruptible
• When Liu Bang (Liu Ji) was in dire straits, Ji Xin died in his stead
• When Baitao starved, Jiaoai chose martyrdom

Like smoke and ashes from the same source yet dispersing separately; like glue and lacquer—different substances forming unbreakable bonds. Thus we see that shared nature cannot be forced where none exists.

The Book of Changes speaks of "finding fellowship at the gate," yet also warns of "ambush in the thick grass," showing how sameness contains difference. These manifest as:

1. Superficial agreement masking internal discord

2. Outward differences concealing essential unity

3. Initial harmony devolving into later conflict

4. Early opposition transforming into eventual concord

5. Others rejecting what I embrace

6. Others accepting what I oppose

Historical examples demonstrate:

• Chen Ping outwardly obeyed Empress Lü while inwardly supporting the Liu clan
• Cheng Ying appeared to betray Gongsun Chuju while actually protecting the Zhao orphan
• Zhang Er and Chen Yu began as sworn brothers only to become mortal enemies
• Guan Zhong (Yi Wu) and Duke Huan of Qi (Xiao Bai) moved from attempted assassination to inseparable partnership
• The Tian clan feigned loyalty while the Qi ruler trusted them more
• Fan Zeng (Yafu) remained utterly loyal while Xiang Yu grew suspicious

Thus the sameness or difference in human hearts defies simple judgment. The wise observe calmly, assess prudently, and adapt flexibly—aligning when alignment serves, diverging when divergence fits. Consider:

• Wei Qing was of Xiongnu origin yet Emperor Wu entrusted him with military command
• You Yu was a Rongdi captive yet Duke Mu of Qin delegated state affairs

This proves even those from enemy states can be entrusted with great responsibility when the timing is right.

The Taiping Liangtong Shu discusses the wisdom of "sameness" and "difference" in human relationships, and how emotions of love and hatred cloud judgment.

On the Dao of "Sameness and Difference":

Though Guan Shu (King Wu of Zhou's younger brother) was the Duke of Zhou's elder sibling, he was executed for rebellion. Shi Hou, though the son of Shi Que, was put to death by his own father for unrighteousness. This shows even among closest kin, distinctions must be made when necessary. Conversely, in relatively distant relationships like ruler-minister or friendships, unity should be maintained when appropriate. Emperor Shun achieved sagehood by appointing eight virtuous ministers (Bayuan) while banishing four criminals (Sizui). King Zhou, by rejecting remonstrance from three benevolent officials (Sanren) while keeping two sycophants close, brought about his kingdom's downfall. This illustrates Confucius' teaching of "acting according to circumstances."

On the Delusion of "Love and Hatred":

The sun can illuminate all things, yet clouds obscure its light; water can reflect all images, yet mud robs it of clarity. The human mind possesses innate wisdom, yet when clouded by internal favoritism and external hatred, it loses discernment. Consider these examples:

• Emperor Shun was filial, yet his father Gusou despised him
• Wusheng (Duke Zhuang of Zheng) was virtuous, yet his mother Wujiang loathed him
• Cranes are ordinary, yet the Duke of Wei paraded them in ornate carriages
• Horses are humble, yet the King of Chu dressed them in embroidered garments

If even flesh-and-blood relationships fracture through personal biases, how much more precarious are ruler-minister bonds? Loyal ministers like Ji An and Yuan Ang were often demoted, while flatterers like Ji Ru and Han Yan gained favor. Shu Sun Tong was rewarded for sycophancy, while Jia Yi was alienated for forthright counsel. Clearly, emotions of love and hatred easily distort judgment.

A true loyal minister should directly point out his ruler's faults...

The Taiping Liangtong Shu discusses how rulers should distinguish between loyal and treacherous ministers:

Upright ministers genuinely seek to cultivate the ruler's virtue (De), yet the ruler mistakenly perceives their actions as hatred. Meanwhile, sycophants openly flatter the ruler's merits while secretly encouraging his faults, yet the ruler considers them truly devoted. In truth, only rulers who heed criticism and reform become enlightened monarchs following the Dao, while those who indulge in praise without discernment inevitably become tyrannical rulers.

Are not those ministers who guide rulers toward the righteous path showing the greatest loyalty? And are not those who lead rulers into unrighteousness the worst enemies? Tragically, rulers often fail to distinguish between honest counsel and fawning flattery, treating ministers arbitrarily: showering favor and nepotistic promotions upon those perceived as loyal, while persecuting even the extended families of those perceived as critical. Consequently, outspoken ministers of integrity are cast aside, while bootlickers who "lick hemorrhoids and suck abscesses" (as Zhuangzi's grotesque metaphor goes) receive high positions and riches.

Rewards should encourage virtue, and official ranks should honor the worthy. If the undeserving gain fame and the unmerited receive rewards, how can this inspire goodness in society? Laws should prohibit evil, and punishments should chastise wrongdoing. If the loyal and righteous are wrongly convicted while the upright suffer penalties, how can this deter wickedness?

Thus, although Han's Liu Bang detested Yong Chi, Zhang Liang advised ennobling him; while Sui's Emperor Yang doted on Yuwen Shu (the Junior Mentor), Bo Bi recognized this as an omen of ruin. Why? Because persecuting the meritorious invites calamity, and favoring the unvirtuous undermines the foundation.

(Note: The "licking hemorrhoids" allusion comes from Zhuangzi, illustrating extreme sycophancy; "three clans" refers to paternal, maternal, and wifely lineages; "five ancestral branches" denotes five generations of kinship.)