《韓非子》Vol. 19

In ancient times when the population was sparse and wild beasts roamed in great numbers, people often fell prey to attacks from animals and venomous creatures. Then a sage emerged who taught people to build nests in trees to avoid harm from wild beasts. The people loved him and elected him to rule the world, calling him "Youchao Shi" (the Nest Builder). At that time, people ate wild fruits and raw shellfish, which smelled foul and harmed their digestive systems, causing frequent illnesses. Another sage invented the method of drilling wood to make fire, teaching people to cook food and eliminate the foul odors. The people loved him and made him their ruler, calling him "Suiren Shi" (the Fire Maker).

By the middle antiquity, great floods inundated the land, and Gun and his son Yu were tasked with controlling the waters. In late antiquity, the tyrannical rulers Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang ruled cruelly and unjustly, until Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou rose up to overthrow them. Had someone in the Xia dynasty advocated building tree nests or drilling for fire, they would have been ridiculed by Gun and Yu. Similarly, had someone in the Shang or Zhou dynasties proposed governing by dredging rivers, they would have been mocked by Tang and Wu. By the same logic, in our present age, anyone who blindly praises the governing methods of Yao, Shun, Tang, Wu, or Yu would surely be laughed at by the sages of the new era. Therefore, true sages do not slavishly imitate antiquity or rigidly adhere to conventions, but devise appropriate measures based on actual circumstances.

There was a farmer in the state of Song who, while plowing his field, saw a rabbit run headlong into a tree stump, break its neck and die. He abandoned his plow and waited by the stump, hoping to catch another rabbit the same way. Naturally, he never got another rabbit and became a laughingstock throughout the state. Today, attempting to govern contemporary people with the methods of ancient kings is just as laughable as that farmer waiting by the stump.

In antiquity, men didn't need to farm because wild fruits provided enough to eat; women didn't need to weave because animal skins provided sufficient clothing. Without hard labor, people had ample food and clothing. With sparse population and abundant resources, the people neither fought nor stole. Heavy rewards and punishments were unnecessary, and society remained naturally peaceful. Nowadays, a man having five sons isn't considered many, and if each son has five sons, the grandfather will have twenty-five grandsons before he dies. The exploding population causes material shortages, and despite backbreaking labor, people still struggle to feed and clothe themselves, leading to widespread conflict. Even with doubled rewards and harsher punishments, social disorder remains unavoidable.

When Yao ruled the world, he lived in a thatched hut with untrimmed rafters, ate coarse grains and wild greens, wore deerskin in winter and hemp cloth in summer - his standard of living was no better than that of a gatekeeper. When Yu ruled, he personally led the people in labor, carrying farm tools himself until his thighs had no excess flesh and the hair had worn off his shins from constant rubbing.

This passage from Han Feizi discusses the differences between ancient and modern social conditions and the evolution of governance methods.

In ancient times, those who abdicated the throne of the Son of Heaven were essentially escaping the hardship of a gatekeeper's life and the toil of slave-like labor. The ancients relinquished the world to others because the position of the Son of Heaven held little to envy. In contrast, today's county magistrates, once deceased, leave their descendants to enjoy wealth and status, making the position highly coveted. The differing attitudes toward "abdication" between past and present stem from disparities in actual benefits.

People living in the mountains who must fetch water from the valleys exchange gifts of water during festivals (due to the difficulty of obtaining it). Those dwelling in low-lying areas plagued by floods hire laborers to dig drainage channels (because severe flooding requires artificial diversion). In times of famine, even a younger brother may go unfed in spring, while in a bountiful autumn, even a passing stranger can eat his fill. This is not due to differences in familial affection but rather to the abundance or scarcity of resources.

The ancients' disregard for material goods was not due to benevolence but to their ample supply. Modern people contend not out of baseness but because resources are scarce. The ancients easily relinquished the throne not because of lofty virtue but because power held little weight; modern people vie for office not because of low character but because authority is now significant. Thus, the sage formulates policies based on actual circumstances.

King Wen of Zhou, ruling an area of merely a hundred li around Feng and Hao, practiced benevolence and righteousness, winning the allegiance of the Western Rong tribes and ultimately becoming king over all under heaven. King Yan of Xu, governing five hundred li east of the Han River, also practiced benevolence and righteousness, receiving tribute from thirty-six states—yet King Wen of Chu raised an army and destroyed him. This shows that benevolence and righteousness were effective in antiquity but ineffective in modern times.

During the era of Shun, the Miao tribes refused submission. Yu wished to launch a punitive expedition, but Shun said, "No. Using force when virtue is insufficient violates righteousness." Instead, he intensified moral education for three years, after which the Miao submitted upon seeing the ceremonial display of shields and axes. Yet in the battle against Gonggong, weapons that were not sharp enough would wound their wielders, and armor that was not sturdy enough would fail to protect the body. This demonstrates that shields and axes worked in ancient times but are ineffective today. Thus, as times change, so too must methods of governance.

In ancient times, people competed through virtue (De) and the Dao; in the middle antiquity, they vied through wisdom and strategy; while in the present age, they contend by force. When the state of Qi sought to invade Lu, Lu sent Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) to persuade Qi. The people of Qi replied, "Your words are not without reason, but what we desire is territory, not the principles you speak of." They then launched an attack, advancing their border to within ten li of Lu's capital.

In the past, King Yan of Xu practiced benevolence and righteousness, yet it led to the downfall of Xu. Zigong, though eloquent, caused Lu's territory to shrink. From this, we see that neither benevolence nor rhetorical wisdom can preserve a state. Had Xu and Lu abandoned these and instead strengthened their national power, they could have resisted invasions from mighty states, and the ambitions of Qi and Chu would have found no foothold.

The customs of ancient and modern times differ, and the methods of governance must adapt accordingly. Attempting to govern unruly people with lenient and slow policies is like trying to control a spirited horse without reins or a whip—this is the mark of folly. Today, both Confucians and Mohists praise the ancient kings for their universal love, claiming that the people would then regard their rulers as parents. How do they prove this? They say: "When the Minister of Justice carries out an execution, the ruler cancels banquets; upon hearing the death sentence report, the ruler sheds tears." This, they claim, was the way of the ancient kings.

If the relationship between ruler and subject could truly resemble that of parent and child, the state would surely be well-governed. But in reality, where do we find perfectly harmonious parent-child relationships? Human nature holds nothing dearer than parents, yet even parental love does not guarantee well-behaved children. However deep the love, how can it prevent disorder? The ancient kings' love for their people did not exceed that of parents for their children. If even children may rebel, how can the people be guaranteed to remain orderly?

Moreover, when the law demands punishment and the ruler weeps, this displays benevolence—not governance. Tears reveal an unwillingness to punish, which is benevolence; yet the law must be enforced, which is governance. The ancient kings prioritized law over tears, making it clear that benevolence cannot govern a state. Besides, the people naturally submit to power; few are moved by benevolence and righteousness.

Confucius was a sage revered throughout the land. Cultivating virtue (De) and expounding the Dao, he traveled widely, and all praised his benevolence and righteousness. Yet only seventy followed him. This shows how few truly esteem benevolence and how rare its practice is. In all the vast world, only seventy followed him, and only he truly embodied benevolence. Duke Ai of Lu was a mediocre ruler, yet when he faced south as sovereign, none in his state dared disobey. The people naturally submit to power—power easily commands obedience. Thus, even a sage like Confucius had to bow to Duke Ai.

This passage presents Han Feizi's perspective on state governance. He argues that relying solely on benevolence and virtue (De) is insufficient—strict laws must be established.

Confucius (Zhongni) would never submit to Duke Ai of Lu because of his virtue, but would yield to authority. Contemporary scholars persuading rulers today fail to emphasize establishing invincible authority, instead advocating only benevolence and righteousness while expecting rulers to be as sage-like as Confucius and the people as disciplined as his disciples—an impossible ideal.

Consider an unruly child: parental scolding, neighbors' ridicule, and teachers' admonishments have no effect, yet when officials arrive with soldiers to arrest him, he immediately reforms. This shows parental love alone cannot discipline children—stern government punishment is necessary. People often become spoiled under leniency but submit under authority.

Even Lou Ji, an expert climber, cannot scale a seventy-foot wall due to its steepness, yet lame goats can graze on thousand-foot mountains with gentle slopes. Thus, wise rulers make their laws as formidable as sheer city walls.

Ordinary cloth isn't casually discarded, yet even the notorious robber Zhi wouldn't touch molten gold—not because of relative value, but because one is harmless while the other burns. Therefore, a wise ruler's punishments must make people feel inevitable consequences.

Rewards should be generous and trustworthy to motivate people; punishments must be severe and unavoidable to inspire fear; laws should be consistent and fixed for clear understanding. When rulers bestow rewards without delay and administer punishments without pardon—coupling praise with rewards and criticism with penalties—both virtuous and unworthy will exert themselves.

Yet currently: titles are granted to the meritorious while their official positions are diminished; farming is rewarded while households are impoverished; recluses are rejected yet their purity admired; lawbreakers are punished yet their courage praised. These contradictory practices of praise/blame and reward/punishment undermine legal order and increase public confusion.

As for those who retaliate when siblings are harmed—called "men of principle," or who avenge insulted friends—called "chivalrous knights"—such private vendettas ultimately fuel disorder.

This passage from Han Feizi primarily discusses the conflict between rule by law and moral virtue. Han Feizi argues that when rulers excessively praise so-called "integrity and incorruptibility" (zhenlian) or "worthiness and capability" (xianneng), it actually leads to national disorder.

The text points out that if a ruler only commends incorruptibility without punishing lawbreakers, the common people will become aggressive and unruly, making officials difficult to govern. If the ruler glorifies "capable" individuals who gain without labor and "worthy" figures respected without military service, it will ultimately weaken military strength and leave fields uncultivated. Confucian scholars disrupt laws with their writings, while knights-errant violate prohibitions through force, yet the ruler treats them with courtesy—this is the root cause of national chaos.

Han Feizi provides two examples: In Chu, an upright man who reported his father for stealing a sheep was executed; in Lu, a man who deserted battle three times to support his father was instead recommended by Confucius as a filial son. This demonstrates that those who are filial to their fathers may be traitors to their rulers. When laws contradict the ruler's preferences, even the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) resurrected would struggle to govern effectively.

Finally, the text concludes that while cultivating benevolence, righteousness, and literary arts may bring individuals fame and status, for the state, rewarding those without merit and honoring those without rank only harms national interests. Public and private interests are inherently opposed—a truth understood since Cang Jie created Chinese characters (the character for "private" originally depicted self-enclosure, while "public" represented turning away from private interests). Han Feizi asserts that rulers seeking national welfare through promoting personal virtue are doomed to fail.

This passage from Han Feizi critiques the contradiction between the prevailing standards of "virtuous sages" and the practical needs of statecraft, arguing that such contradictions inevitably lead to national disorder. Han Feizi asserts:

A state cannot simultaneously uphold two opposing principles. For instance, rewarding soldiers for killing enemies while praising benevolent virtue; promoting military commanders who conquer cities while advocating integrity and compassion; strengthening defenses against external threats while admiring the loose robes and scholarly attire of Confucians. Such contradictory policies will only weaken the nation.

In peacetime, the state supports Confucian scholars and wandering knights, yet in war, it must rely on warriors. The talents the state truly needs and those it actually prioritizes are completely mismatched. The result is that diligent workers neglect their essential duties, while idle talkers and rhetoricians multiply—precisely the root cause of widespread chaos.

What the world calls "virtuous sages" boast of integrity, while so-called "wise men" indulge in abstract theories. Yet these profound doctrines are difficult even for the intelligent to grasp, let alone ordinary people. It is as absurd as expecting those who cannot afford coarse grains to crave fine rice and rich meats, or those who lack plain cloth to desire embroidered silks. Instead of addressing urgent governance problems, rulers chase impractical lofty ideals—a complete inversion of priorities.

Moreover, take these so-called "men of integrity." Integrity is necessary in private dealings because commoners lack wealth for mutual benefit or power to coerce. But the ruler holds the authority to reward and punish. By enforcing clear laws, deceit among officials can be prevented—why must one deliberately seek out the rare few who happen to be honest? There are fewer than ten truly upright men in the entire state, yet official posts number in the hundreds. If only they are deemed fit for office, governance will collapse from a lack of personnel.

Thus, the way of the enlightened ruler is this: Unify laws rather than chase individual wisdom; consolidate authority rather than admire personal integrity. With strict legal codes, officials dare not act deceitfully. Yet modern rulers are constantly misled by eloquent rhetoric—this is the fatal error in governance.

Han Feizi here criticizes the prevalent phenomenon in his time where empty talk overshadowed practical action. He points out that people pursued ornate rhetoric while neglecting tangible results, and the courts were filled with those who idly discussed "benevolence and righteousness," leading to political chaos. Those self-righteous recluses who retreated to mountain caves and refused official salaries only weakened the state's military strength and destabilized its governance. Why did this happen? Because the very methods praised by the people and honored by rulers were precisely those that harmed the nation.

Nowadays, everyone in the country talks about governance, and every household owns the works of Shang Yang and Guan Zhong, yet the state grows poorer—many speak of farming, but few actually wield hoes; everyone discusses military strategy, and every family collects the treatises of Sun Wu and Wu Qi, yet the army grows weaker—many debate warfare, but few don armor and take up arms. A wise ruler should focus on practical results: encourage the people to farm diligently because they know it brings wealth, and inspire soldiers to fight bravely because they know it earns honor.

If wealth and status could be gained through mere eloquence, who would bother with the toil of farming or the risks of battle? The result is a hundred people scheming with clever words while only one exerts real effort. When empty talkers multiply, the legal system decays; when doers dwindle, the state falls into poverty. This is the root of the world's disorder.

Thus, an ideal state should: discard classical texts and use laws as its teaching materials; cease venerating the words of ancient kings and instead regard officials as instructors; stop glorifying private duels and chivalry, and instead valorize battlefield courage. In this way, the people's speech would align with the law, their actions would pursue concrete results, and their valor would be directed toward war. In peacetime, the state would prosper; in wartime, its military would be strong—this is the foundation for ruling the world.

Yet the present situation is the opposite: within the state, scholars act recklessly, while abroad, itinerant lobbyists bully others with their influence. Faced with powerful enemies amid such internal and external crises, is this not perilous? Those ministers who debate foreign policy either belong to factions advocating vertical or horizontal alliances or harbor personal vendettas they seek to avenge through external forces.

This passage from Han Feizi discusses the pros and cons of state diplomatic strategies. The author analyzes two prevalent diplomatic approaches of the time—"vertical alliances" (uniting smaller states against a dominant power) and "horizontal alliances" (aligning with one strong state to suppress others)—both of which had serious flaws.

Proponents of horizontal alliances often argued, "Failing to serve a major power invites disaster." Yet in practice, serving a powerful state typically required presenting maps (signifying territorial concessions) and surrendering official seals (symbolizing submission). Offering maps diminished the nation's territory, while yielding seals eroded its prestige. Reduced territory weakened national power, and diminished prestige destabilized governance. Thus, aligning with a strong state not only failed to yield tangible benefits but also led to territorial losses and internal chaos.

Advocates of vertical alliances, meanwhile, claimed, "Failing to rescue smaller states and oppose major powers will cost us the support of the people." But when dispatching troops to aid smaller states, they inevitably risked antagonizing powerful adversaries. Such interventions rarely succeeded in preserving the smaller states while almost certainly provoking the stronger ones. Once relations with a major power soured, the rescuer became subject to its control. Military campaigns might end in defeat, while retreats could result in lost cities. Hence, aiding smaller states brought no gains—only depleted forces and surrendered territory.

Both strategies enabled powerful ministers to exploit diplomacy for personal gain: aligning with a strong state invited foreign interference in domestic affairs, while aiding smaller states allowed ministers to demand heavy bribes from abroad. Before any diplomatic outcomes materialized, these officials had already secured fiefdoms and lavish stipends. The ruler's authority waned as ministers grew more influential; the state's territory shrank while ministerial families amassed wealth. Success meant prolonged control for these officials, while failure allowed them to retire comfortably with their spoils.

Rulers compounded these problems by rewarding lobbyists prematurely and failing to punish failures. Under such conditions, who wouldn't resort to glib rhetoric for profit? Thus, doomed rulers often fell prey to grandiose rhetoric—a consequence of failing to distinguish public from private interests, evaluate arguments objectively, or enforce penalties consistently.

Some argued, "In diplomacy, serving major powers leads to hegemony, while aiding smaller states ensures self-preservation." Yet true hegemony belongs to states capable of offensive campaigns, and genuine security to those impervious to attack. A nation's strength and stability derive not from diplomatic maneuvers but from sound domestic governance. Today's rulers neglect internal legal reforms while obsessing over diplomatic cleverness—a path that never leads to true power or security.

As the saying goes, "Long sleeves aid dancing; ample wealth aids trade"—meaning abundant resources make tasks easier. Strong states execute strategies effortlessly, while weak, chaotic ones struggle to implement even sound plans. This explains why Qin succeeded (through robust internal governance) while the six other states exhausted their diplomatic ingenuity yet still failed to secure survival.

Han Feizi's passage explains that the key to governing a state lies in proper policies rather than merely relying on the intelligence or foolishness of individuals. He illustrates this with examples: the same person who succeeds in Qin might fail in Yan—not because they became foolish, but because the foundational governance of the two states differs. The Zhou state's attempt at forming a vertical alliance (uniting states against Qin) led to its destruction within a year, while Wei's horizontal alliance (aligning with a powerful state) resulted in its downfall within six months, demonstrating the dangers of blindly following diplomatic trends.

The true method of preserving a state should be: first, perfect internal governance by establishing clear laws, enforcing rewards and punishments strictly, developing agriculture to accumulate grain reserves, and inspiring the people to fight to the death in defense of their cities. Under such conditions, even if another state occupies the territory, it gains little benefit, and the heavy cost of conquest deters larger states from attacking recklessly. Unfortunately, many rulers abandon this stable approach in favor of paths that inevitably lead to ruin.

The common people naturally desire stability. Yet now they are forced into war—advancing means death in battle, retreating means execution under military law—making their situation perilous. Abandoning their livelihoods to enlist leaves their families destitute with no support from the state, creating unbearable hardship. Naturally, they evade conscription, bribing officials to avoid service, thereby depleting the state's pool of capable fighters.

A wise ruler governs by restricting the numbers and status of merchants and artisans—those who do not engage in productive labor. Yet today, official titles can be purchased, elevating merchants' status; profiteering yields market gains, swelling their ranks. These individuals earn more than farmers and hold higher status than soldiers, leading to fewer diligent farmers and warriors while opportunists multiply.

The prevailing ethos in a disordered state is this: scholars idly debate the ways of ancient sage-kings, adorning themselves with empty displays of benevolence and righteousness, using eloquent rhetoric to challenge existing laws and shake the ruler's resolve. Those who glorify antiquity weave deceitful tales, leveraging foreign powers to pursue personal gain.

This passage from Han Feizi primarily critiques five types of parasitic behaviors that harm the state, while also examining the disputes between the two dominant schools of thought at the time—Confucianism and Mohism.

The text first identifies five detrimental practices: First, officials prioritizing personal gain at the expense of the state; second, wandering knights forming factions, violating laws; third, powerful elites maintaining private retinues, accepting bribes, and sidelining meritorious officials; fourth, merchants producing shoddy goods, hoarding supplies, and exploiting peasants; fifth, craftsmen manufacturing inferior tools while amassing wealth. The text argues that if a ruler fails to eliminate these five groups and cultivate upright individuals, the state's decline becomes inevitable.

Next, it discusses the prominent intellectual movements—Confucianism and Mohism. After Confucius's death, Confucianism split into eight factions; after Mozi's death, Mohism divided into three. Though these factions held contradictory doctrines, each claimed to be the true inheritor of their founder's teachings. Han Feizi questions: With Confucius and Mozi long gone, who can determine which faction represents orthodoxy? Both schools revered the sage-kings Yao and Shun, yet their interpretations of Yao and Shun's Way diverged. He contends that accurately reconstructing a 3,000-year-old doctrine is impossible—blind belief without verification is foolish, and presenting unverifiable claims as authoritative is deceitful.

Finally, the text contrasts Confucian and Mohist views on funerals: Mohists advocated simple burials—burying the dead in seasonal clothing, using three-inch-thick paulownia wood coffins, and observing three months of mourning, which society praised as frugal. Confucians promoted elaborate funerals—bankrupting families for lavish ceremonies, observing three years of mourning with grief so intense it required walking sticks, which society lauded as filial. Han Feizi exposes this contradiction: endorsing Mohist frugality necessitates rejecting Confucian extravagance, while upholding Confucian filial piety requires dismissing Mohist austerity.

This passage from Han Feizi critiques the contradictory phenomenon in contemporary society of indiscriminately embracing both Confucian and Mohist doctrines, which resulted in intellectual confusion and governance dilemmas.

The text mentions Qidiao Shi (a representative Confucian scholar) who advocated unwavering integrity, refusing to yield to authority figures and boldly confronting feudal lords with righteous conduct. Rulers considered this virtuous and treated him with respect. Conversely, Song Rongzi (a Mohist representative) promoted non-contention and non-retaliation, remaining unashamed even when humiliated, which rulers deemed magnanimous and likewise honored. Han Feizi points out that these two diametrically opposed moral standards being simultaneously upheld is as contradictory as "ice and charcoal sharing the same vessel" or "winter and summer arriving at the same time."

The text further criticizes contemporary governance proposals: Some advocated redistributing land to the poor, but Han Feizi argues that poverty stems either from extravagance and indolence or from frugality and diligence. If rulers tax the wealthy to subsidize the poor, they effectively rob the diligent and thrifty to reward the wasteful and lazy—making it impossible to expect people to work hard and live frugally.

Another example cites those unwilling to sacrifice even a single hair for the greater good of society, yet rulers revere such individuals for "disdaining material things and cherishing life." Meanwhile, rulers establish fertile lands, grand estates, and noble titles precisely to motivate people to serve and sacrifice for the state. Yet now they honor those who cling to life—how can they then expect citizens to die for their country?

Finally, the text satirizes scholars who merely parrot the ways of ancient kings and gather disciples to debate state affairs, yet rulers dignify them under the pretense of "revering the worthy." Han Feizi argues that allowing such contradictory doctrines to coexist inevitably leads to governance chaos. The entire passage reflects the Legalist opposition to Confucian and Mohist teachings, advocating instead for ideological unification in governance.

This passage discusses how rulers should select capable individuals. Han Feizi points out serious flaws in how contemporary rulers treat scholars and warriors: lavishing rewards on scholars who produce nothing, while heavily taxing hardworking farmers; failing to honor battlefield heroes, yet glorifying those who excel in private brawls. Such practices of "nurturing the unusable while employing the un-nurtured" constitute the root cause of national disorder.

He illustrates this with Confucius' mistakes in judging people: initially accepting the disciple Ziyu of Tantai for his dignified appearance, only to later discover his character didn't match his looks; similarly admiring Zai Yu for his eloquent speech, but finding his wisdom couldn't keep pace with his rhetoric. This demonstrates even sages can be misled by appearances.

Han Feizi proposes practical methods for testing talent: just as judging a sword's sharpness requires actual cutting rather than examining its forging color, or identifying a fine steed demands observing its performance in pulling a carriage over distance rather than assessing its form. Likewise, evaluating officials shouldn't depend on physical appearance or ornate speech, but on assigning concrete positions to test their administrative achievements.

He concludes with the wise ruler's principle for employing talent: ministers must be selected from lower-ranking officials, and fierce generals must be promoted from the ranks. This emphasis on practical capability over superficial qualities constitutes the correct way to govern the state and bring peace to the land.

Han Feizi's passage primarily expounds on the importance of the rule of law, employing vivid analogies to illustrate that governing a state cannot rely on people's self-awareness but must depend on clear and strict legal institutions.

First, the text uses the system of rewards and punishments to explain the principles of governance: Generous titles, emoluments, and official promotions should be granted to those who have rendered meritorious service, thereby encouraging officials to be more diligent. Just as a massive boulder a thousand miles wide cannot be considered wealth, nor can a million wooden puppets be considered strength—because they can neither produce grain nor wage war—so too are merchants, scholars, and knights-errant who enjoy wealth and status without labor as useless to the state as barren land that cannot be cultivated or wooden puppets that cannot fight.

Next, the text uses international relations to illustrate the principle of power: No matter how much an enemy ruler admires our righteousness, they will not submit, whereas regional lords within our borders, even if they disagree with our methods, will inevitably come to pay homage—all of which depends entirely on the balance of power. Just as a strict household has no unruly servants, while a doting mother may raise a prodigal son, this proves that authority is more effective than benevolence in quelling disorder.

Finally, the analogy of arrow-making and cart-building emphasizes the necessity of the rule of law: Are there naturally straight arrow shafts or perfectly round cartwheels in the world? The reason we can craft good arrows and carts lies entirely in the craftsman's corrective tools (hidden standards). Similarly, governance cannot expect people to naturally incline toward goodness but must rely on legal institutions to regulate behavior. A wise ruler does not pursue occasional acts of virtue but establishes a governance system that produces inevitable results. Just as if someone claimed they could make people invariably wise and long-lived, everyone would find it absurd—the same applies to statecraft. One cannot pin hopes on sporadic acts of goodness.

This passage from Han Feizi primarily critiques the Confucian scholars' impractical political advocacy of empty moral rhetoric, emphasizing instead the paramount importance of rule by law.

Human wisdom and lifespan are innate endowments, not qualities one can acquire by imitating others. When someone demands of others standards they themselves cannot meet, the world deems such a person arrogant. Attempting to transform people through benevolence and righteousness is as futile as persuading others with claims about wisdom and longevity. A wise ruler rejects such empty talk. Just as praising the beauty of Mao Qiang and Xi Shi does nothing to improve my own appearance, while cosmetics can actually enhance it, so too does extolling the ancient kings' virtue prove useless for governance. Clear laws and consistent enforcement of rewards and punishments are the true "cosmetics" of statecraft.

When contemporary Confucian scholars advise rulers today, they avoid concrete methods of governance, instead boasting about the achievements of ancient sage-kings, claiming their counsel alone can bring imperial supremacy. Such rhetoric resembles the hollow incantations of shamans chanting "a thousand autumns, ten thousand years." Discerning monarchs focus on tangible governance results, discarding useless verbiage—hence they disregard these scholars' words.

Some assert that governing well hinges on "winning the people's hearts," but the populace's wisdom resembles that of infants. When a baby falls ill, even its loving mother's medical treatment will make it cry from fear of pain, unaware that temporary discomfort brings greater benefit. Similarly, a ruler's promotion of farming, strict penalties, and tax collection all serve the people's long-term welfare, yet the masses decry such measures as cruel, harsh, and greedy. Governing solely by popular opinion would be like indulging an infant's every cry, leaving no room for capable ministers like Yi Yin or Guan Zhong to function.

Han Feizi underscores here that effective governance cannot rely on empty moralizing or blind obedience to public sentiment, but must be achieved through clear legal frameworks and pragmatic policies to ensure lasting stability.

This passage addresses the limitations of popular wisdom in state governance. While military strategies pursued without personal bias—concentrating forces for swift campaigns aimed at capturing enemies—are fundamentally sound, the common people often perceive them as tyrannical. The four methods of governance (referring to laws, statecraft, authority, and benefits) are designed to stabilize society, yet the populace fails to appreciate their advantages.

The search for sagely and enlightened talent arises precisely because the wisdom of the masses is insufficient to emulate. In ancient times, when Yu the Great dredged rivers to control floods, the people piled up tiles and stones to stone him; when Zichan (the renowned minister of Zheng) implemented land reforms and encouraged sericulture, the people of Zheng slandered him. Both Yu, who worked for the benefit of all under heaven, and Zichan, who preserved the state of Zheng, faced condemnation. This demonstrates that the wisdom of the common people is indeed inadequate.

Therefore, selecting officials based solely on virtue and intelligence, or shaping policies entirely to please the populace, becomes a source of chaos—such approaches cannot achieve good governance. Han Feizi argues that ruling a state cannot rely entirely on the shallow views of the people; instead, it requires enlightened rulers to guide them through laws and institutions.