《韓非子》Vol. 4

Chapter 11 "Solitary Indignation" in Volume IV of Han Feizi primarily discusses the predicament of legalist scholars in political struggles. The text points out that those truly proficient in statecraft must possess far-sighted vision and keen discernment, otherwise they cannot penetrate selfish motives; those who enforce laws must be resolute and upright, otherwise they cannot rectify corrupt practices.

The so-called "powerful men" (referring to influential ministers) act arbitrarily without observing legal statutes, undermine the legal system for personal gain, deplete state resources to benefit their own families, yet still manage to win the ruler's trust. If scholars of wisdom and strategy are employed, they can expose the hidden schemes of these powerful ministers; if practitioners of legalist methods are employed, they can correct the ministers' malfeasance. Therefore, scholars of wisdom and law stand in irreconcilable opposition to the powerful ministers in positions of authority.

When influential ministers control key positions, both internal and external forces become instruments for their use: feudal lords cannot accomplish anything without going through them, hence even rival states plead on their behalf; officials cannot advance without attaching themselves to these ministers, hence the entire bureaucracy works for them; court attendants (langzhong, the ruler's close ministers) cannot gain the ruler's access without currying their favor, hence the ruler's inner circle conceals their misdeeds; scholars cannot gain recognition without pledging allegiance to them. These vivid descriptions reveal the political ecosystem where powerful ministers form cliques for selfish ends and monopolize state affairs.

This passage discusses the power struggles between powerful ministers and Legalist scholars in ancient court politics. Those influential ministers (referring to high-ranking officials holding real power) typically employed four tactics to embellish their image: first, using generous emoluments to win over scholars who would speak well of them; second, employing humble etiquette to buy popular support; third, utilizing scholars to create favorable momentum for themselves; and fourth, cultivating factions.

These powerful ministers were not truly loyal to the ruler. Instead, they would marginalize the very talents the ruler genuinely needed (referring to Legalist scholars who advocated rule by law). Often trapped by these four deceptive tactics, the ruler would fail to see his ministers' true nature, resulting in the gradual weakening of imperial authority and the continuous growth of ministerial power.

The powerful ministers were well-versed in the art of pleasing the ruler: they thoroughly understood the ruler's inclinations, catered to his preferences, formed factions, and ensured the entire court spoke on their behalf. In contrast, Legalist scholars advocating rule by law found themselves in dire straits—they enjoyed neither the ruler's favor nor the advantage of longstanding relationships. They could only rely on Legalist principles to correct the ruler's partiality, which essentially meant opposing the ruler's inclinations.

Legalist scholars faced five inherent disadvantages: holding low positions, lacking factional support, being distant from the ruler, having shallow seniority, and advocating principles contrary to the ruler's preferences. Fighting alone against the entire faction of powerful ministers, they were destined to fail. Often, they couldn't secure an audience with the ruler for years, while those influential ministers could freely offer counsel at any moment. Under such circumstances, how could talents advocating rule by law possibly gain recognition? When would the ruler ever hear genuine wisdom?

This passage from Han Feizi discusses the precarious position of Legalist scholars ("experts in statecraft") within the imperial court. The powerful ministers ("influential figures") who held real authority would employ various means to suppress these advocates of rule by law.

If these Legalist scholars committed any misstep, the powerful ministers would publicly execute them under the pretext of upholding the law. If no obvious fault could be found, assassins would be dispatched to eliminate them. Meanwhile, those who formed factions and curried favor with these ministers were promoted—official posts were granted for meritorious service, and substantial power was given even without achievements.

Han Feizi criticizes the rulers of his time: they would arbitrarily punish Legalist scholars without proper investigation, while carelessly bestowing titles without regard to actual accomplishments. The consequence was that Legalist scholars dared not risk their lives to offer remonstrance, and corrupt ministers became even more unwilling to relinquish their ill-gotten gains. The ruler's authority steadily weakened while the ministers' power grew unchecked.

He employs the metaphor of the Yue state: though rich and powerful, Yue meant nothing to the Central Plains rulers because it lay beyond their control. Similarly, even if a state possessed vast territories and abundant resources, if the ruler remained blinded by deception and real power slipped from his grasp, the state would become as distant and unattainable as Yue. This serves as a stark warning to rulers: neglecting the rule of law and allowing ministers to monopolize power would ultimately lead to losing actual control over the state.

This passage from Han Feizi primarily elucidates how a ruler's loss of control over the state inevitably leads to its downfall.

The author uses the state of Yue as a metaphor, illustrating that if a ruler fails to accurately assess the condition of their own state, it is akin to being unaware that their realm has become like Yue—implying the state has fallen under the sway of powerful ministers. The downfall of Qi and Jin was not due to the loss of territory or cities but rather because powerful clans like the Lü and Tian families monopolized authority, while the Ji clan lost control to the six ministerial families. If ministers now seize absolute power while the ruler remains oblivious to reclaiming authority, this demonstrates the ruler's lack of wisdom.

The text then employs analogies of illness and fallen states: those who suffer the same ailment as the dead will not survive, and states that replicate the actions of fallen nations will not endure. To emulate the practices of Qi and Jin—allowing ministerial monopolization of power—while hoping for stability is impossible.

Next, it discusses how the methods of governance (shu, or statecraft) are difficult to implement, not only in large states but also in smaller ones. Those close to the ruler are not necessarily wise; if the ruler seeks counsel from the intelligent but then debates their advice with unwise attendants, it amounts to "debating wisdom with fools." Similarly, if the ruler honors virtuous scholars but discusses their conduct with unworthy courtiers, it becomes "debating virtue with the unvirtuous." In such cases, the worthy would feel ashamed, and the ruler's judgment would falter.

Finally, the passage explains how ministers seek office: the virtuous rely on self-cultivation and integrity (jingjie, meaning uprightness and purity), while the wise depend on administrative skill and persuasive discourse (zhibian, governance and rhetoric). The virtuous do not resort to bribery to curry favor, and by upholding integrity, they avoid bending the law. Thus, the worthy and wise neither flatter those close to the ruler nor comply with improper solicitations (qingye, seeking office through corrupt patronage).

(Note: Though this passage is from Han Feizi, a Legalist text, its translation adheres to the requested Daoist terminology style where applicable. However, the content itself does not directly engage with Daoist concepts.)

The close attendants surrounding a ruler rarely possess the integrity of Bo Yi (an ancient paragon of virtue). If their demands remain unsatisfied without material bribes being offered, then truly capable individuals of noble character will be buried in obscurity, while slanderous accusations will flourish.

The crucial balance between order and chaos in a state actually lies in the hands of these intimate courtiers. Whether officials demonstrate virtuous conduct depends entirely on these attendants' defamation or praise. Consequently, truly cultivated and wise officials will be dismissed, and the ruler's discernment will be obscured.

If one judges capability and character without examining actual achievements, investigates faults without multiple verifications, but instead heeds the words of these close attendants, then the court will be filled with incompetents, while foolish and corrupt officials occupy positions of power.

For large states, the greatest peril lies in ministers becoming overly powerful; for small states, the gravest danger is excessive trust in personal attendants. This constitutes a universal challenge faced by all rulers.

The interests of ruler and minister are fundamentally opposed: the ruler wishes to appoint capable individuals to office, while ministers desire the appointment of incompetents; the ruler seeks to grant rank and stipends according to merit, while ministers crave wealth and status without achievement; the ruler hopes for outstanding talents to fully utilize their abilities, while ministers prefer forming cliques for private gain.

This opposition leads to the state's territory being diminished while ministerial households grow ever richer, the ruler's position declines while ministerial power increases daily. Ultimately, the ruler loses authority while ministers seize control of the state. The proper relationship between ruler and minister becomes completely inverted—the sovereign finds himself subservient to his ministers, and state power becomes divided among them. This exemplifies how ministers usurp their ruler's authority and steal governance of the realm.

This passage discusses the issue of ministers deceiving their rulers for personal gain. Those cunning officials who excel at using fraudulent means to blindfold their sovereign—even when facing changes in rulership—fewer than two or three out of ten manage to retain their favored positions. Why is this? Because deceiving one's ruler is a grave crime punishable by death.

Wise individuals with foresight, fearing capital punishment, would certainly not follow such manipulative ministers. Upright people who value integrity would feel ashamed to join corrupt officials in deceiving their sovereign and thus would never align with them. Therefore, the factions of these powerful ministers consist either of foolish individuals oblivious to impending disaster, or of morally bankrupt scoundrels who specialize in wicked deeds.

These high-ranking ministers lead such ignorant and corrupt followers to deceive the ruler above while exploiting the people below, squeezing the populace like fishermen draining a pond. They form cliques for selfish gains, covering for each other while unanimously deluding the sovereign, corrupting laws, disturbing public order, and ultimately leading the state to ruin and bringing shame upon the ruler. This constitutes a minister's capital offense. If the ruler fails to curb such behavior, it becomes his grave failing. When the ruler commits major errors above while ministers commit grave crimes below, such a state cannot avoid destruction.

Chapter Twelve of "The Difficulties of Persuasion" points out: The crux of advising a ruler lies in seizing the right moment. Aligning with the ruler's inclinations may bring blessings, while opposing them could invite disaster. A hair's breadth of difference leads to a thousand-mile divergence—this illustrates the difficulty of remonstration.

The true challenge in offering counsel lies not in whether one possesses the knowledge to advise (for pretending to know what one doesn't, even with loyalty, invites suspicion), nor in whether one can clearly articulate one's thoughts.

This passage discusses the difficulties of offering counsel to others. Han Feizi points out that the key to persuasion lies in accurately discerning the true intentions in another person's heart, then employing the appropriate method of advice.

First, if someone pursues reputation but you try to persuade them with material gain, they will consider you vulgar and distance themselves. Conversely, if someone values profit but you appeal to their sense of honor, they will deem you impractical and reject your advice.

The situation becomes more complex with those who outwardly seek fame while secretly coveting benefits. For such people, if you use reputation as your argument, they may appear to accept you while actually keeping you at arm's length. If you appeal to their self-interest, they might privately adopt your suggestion while publicly pretending to disdain it.

Han Feizi further warns that certain matters require secrecy to succeed—if revealed, they will fail. Even if you didn't intentionally disclose information, merely mentioning something the other person wishes to conceal will make them suspect you know their secret, thereby placing you in danger. Sometimes a person's apparent actions serve as cover for hidden purposes. As an advisor, focusing solely on surface appearances without understanding deeper intentions can prove perilous.

This passage reveals the complexities of interpersonal persuasion, emphasizing the need for psychological insight and measured approach. Without these, one not only fails to achieve their purpose but may invite misfortune.

This passage outlines several perilous situations that officials may encounter when offering advice to rulers in ancient times:

First, if you possess knowledge of the ruler's confidential matters and attempt to advise through indirect means, any subsequent leak of information will make the ruler suspect you as the source, thereby endangering your life.

Second, when devising special plans for the ruler, should an astute outsider deduce and expose the strategy, the ruler will suspect your involvement in the breach, potentially leading to punishment.

Third, disclosing all confidential information before earning the ruler's full trust is hazardous. If your suggestions succeed, the ruler won't acknowledge your contribution; if they fail, your competence will be questioned.

Fourth, directly criticizing powerful figures' misconduct using moral principles risks provoking their anger. Similarly dangerous is knowing details when influential persons wish to claim exclusive credit for successful schemes.

Fifth, compelling others to attempt the impossible or obstructing their desired actions inevitably breeds resentment.

Sixth, discussing high-ranking ministers with the ruler may be interpreted as ambition to replace them; mentioning minor officials appears as power flaunting; praising the ruler's favorites seems like currying favor; mentioning those the ruler dislikes comes across as probing intentions.

Seventh, overly concise advice may be deemed foolish, while exhaustive, granular arguments risk being considered tedious verbosity. Both approaches endanger the advisor.

(Note: "Wò" refers to deep familiarity; "shāo" was an ancient unit of measurement; "jiàn" here means to supplant)

This passage discusses the art and challenges of offering counsel to rulers in ancient times. When ministers advised their sovereigns, they faced various dilemmas: if one spoke in excessive detail, they risked being seen as timid and indirect; if one planned too meticulously and spoke too bluntly, they might be perceived as crude and disrespectful.

The essence of persuasion lies in skillfully embellishing what the ruler takes pride in while downplaying what causes him shame. Specific techniques include: when the ruler is preoccupied with personal matters, framing the advice in terms of public righteousness to guide him; when the ruler aspires to noble ideals but lacks capability, tactfully pointing out past shortcomings to motivate improvement; when the ruler wishes to display his wisdom, providing analogous historical examples as subtle references while feigning ignorance of the assistance being offered.

Ultimately, effective persuasion requires aligning with the ruler's inclinations—neither being overly explicit nor overly timid. One must skillfully read subtle cues and guide the sovereign toward accepting advice through appropriate means. These represent the perennial difficulties and refined techniques of offering counsel in ancient courtly contexts.

This passage discusses strategies for skillfully persuading others. When you want someone to accept a certain viewpoint, you should first present it under a noble pretext while subtly implying personal benefits (for instance, when expressing concern, emphasize it as virtuous conduct while hinting that such action will bring them good reputation and tangible advantages). If warning of danger, openly point out potential slander while suggesting it concerns their personal welfare (for example, when alerting someone to peril, explicitly mention the calumny they might face while implying genuine harm to their interests).

Praise those whose actions resemble theirs, and endorse plans similar to their own. If someone has committed the same mistake, vigorously justify it as inconsequential; if someone has suffered similar failures, clearly state these don't constitute faults (thus making them feel you're defending them, thereby increasing trust). If the other prides themselves on ability, don't discourage them with impossible challenges; if they consider themselves decisive, don't provoke them with past errors; if they fancy themselves shrewd strategists, don't embarrass them with examples of failure (all these preserve their self-esteem and maintain dialogue).

Most crucially, avoid direct confrontation—let no word irritate them. Only then can your wisdom and eloquence fully manifest. Mastering these methods allows closeness without suspicion, enabling free expression of your views. This approach embodies the Daoist principle of Wuwei (non-action)—achieving influence through subtle alignment rather than forceful opposition, much like water flowing around obstacles while ultimately shaping the landscape. The techniques mirror the interplay of Yin-Yang, where apparent deference (Yin) ultimately guides outcomes (Yang) without overt struggle.

This passage discusses the techniques and risks of offering counsel in ancient times.

Yi Yin (renowned minister of the Shang dynasty) once worked as a cook, while Baili Xi (celebrated statesman of Qin) had been a prisoner. Both used humble positions to approach rulers. Though sages, they had to humble themselves to gain access to power. If someone today could gain influence through similarly lowly status like that of a butcher or prisoner to save the world, this would not be shameful.

A true persuader must: maintain the ruler's trust even after long association, engage in deep strategizing without arousing suspicion, and offer blunt advice without incurring blame. One must clearly analyze advantages and disadvantages to achieve merit, and directly point out right and wrong to elevate one's position. Only when such mutual trust exists between ruler and minister can counsel be considered successful.

Duke Wu of Zheng wanted to attack the state of Hu. First he married his daughter to Hu's ruler to lull them, then asked his ministers whom to attack. Minister Guan Qisi honestly answered "Hu should be attacked," whereupon the duke executed him, feigning anger by calling Hu a brother-state. Hearing this, Hu's ruler lowered his guard, allowing Zheng to launch a successful surprise attack. Another story: When a wealthy man of Song had a crumbling wall, both his son and an elderly neighbor warned it would attract thieves. That night, a robbery occurred. The rich man praised his son's wisdom but suspected the neighbor. These two truth-tellers—Guan Qisi who was killed and the neighbor who was suspected—demonstrate that knowing the truth isn't hard; what's difficult is handling that knowledge wisely.

This passage illustrates the subtleties of offering counsel and the delicate dynamics between rulers and ministers through two parables.

The first story recounts the fates of Raochao and Mizi Xia. Raochao was revered as a sage in Jin but executed in Qin, demonstrating how the same person could receive diametrically opposed treatment in different states. When favored by his lord, Mizi Xia's unauthorized use of the royal carriage was praised as filial devotion, and his offering of a half-eaten peach was commended. Yet after falling from grace, these identical acts were condemned as presumption and insult. This shows how ministers' words and deeds remain constant while the ruler's changing favor alters their interpretation—much like the reverse scales beneath a dragon's throat that guarantee death to whoever touches them, sovereigns too possess inviolable taboos.

The second tale of "He's Jade" chronicles Bian He's three attempts to present his precious stone: First to King Li, where jade-workers declared it mere rock, costing him his left foot; then to King Wu, costing his right foot; until finally under King Wen, its true value was recognized. This parable reveals how genuine worth often requires time to be acknowledged, while allegorizing the injustices virtuous scholars may endure.

Both stories caution that advisors must carefully assess circumstances and understand their ruler's preferences—avoiding sovereigns' forbidden zones as one would evade a dragon's reverse scales. Simultaneously, they expose how a ruler's favor directly shapes the judgment of ministers' conduct: identical actions may receive completely opposite evaluations at different times.

This passage recounts two stories that illustrate principles of statecraft.

The first is the tale of "The Jade of He": A man named Bian He discovered an uncut piece of jade and presented it to the King of Chu, only to have it mistaken for an ordinary stone. As punishment for this perceived deception, his feet were amputated. When a new king ascended the throne, Bian He presented the jade again, and its true value as a priceless treasure was finally recognized—this became the famous "Jade of He." Han Feizi uses this story to demonstrate that even valuable loyal advice and talented individuals will be treated as worthless if the ruler lacks discernment.

The second part discusses principles of governance. The author observes that if ministers attempt to maintain their positions through mere personal integrity and public service, it would be as impossible as trying to draw a perfect circle without a compass. Seeking stability through mere law-abiding behavior without forming alliances is as absurd as trying to scratch one's head with one's foot. In reality, many high officials form factions for personal gain, leaving the ruler isolated and unsupported. The historical case of Tian Chengzi assassinating Duke Jian of Qi exemplifies this dynamic.

A minister truly versed in statecraft should assist the ruler through laws and institutions, simultaneously enhancing the sovereign's authority while restraining corrupt officials. The ruler must implement rewards and punishments based on sound advice, using concrete results to verify the truthfulness of counsel. When this occurs, close advisors will understand that deception brings no benefit, and all officials will recognize that corruption and lawlessness lead only to self-destruction. With the path to safety and danger so clearly delineated, how could a ruler possibly be deceived by honeyed words?

The core argument emphasizes the paramount importance of rule by law, asserting that rulers must establish clear institutional norms and evaluate ministers based on practical results. Only through such measures can they avoid being misled and ensure national stability.

Han Feizi's passage discusses the art of statecraft, with its core idea being that a ruler should establish systems that compel subjects' loyalty rather than relying on their voluntary devotion.

The successful governance of Guan Zhong in Qi and Shang Yang's strengthening of Qin demonstrate that enlightened rulers administer states by creating systems that make loyalty obligatory. If a ruler depends solely on subjects' affectionate devotion, it becomes precarious; only by establishing compulsory loyalty can a state achieve stability. Between ruler and minister there exists no natural kinship—when upright conduct brings benefit, ministers serve wholeheartedly; when righteousness cannot ensure self-preservation, they pursue private interests instead.

Wise rulers understand this principle, therefore they establish clear systems of rewards and punishments proclaimed throughout the land. Thus the ruler need not micromanage affairs nor personally supervise every official, yet the state remains well-governed. A truly enlightened sovereign requires neither the legendary vision of Li Lou (ancient China's sharpest-eyed man) nor the hearing of Shi Kuang (renowned ancient musician), but instead employs systems that make all under heaven become his eyes and ears. Hence the enlightened ruler, while dwelling in deep palaces, perceives all matters clearly, remaining unclouded by deception—this because he abolishes foolish, chaotic governance and establishes intelligent systems.

Rulers skilled in wielding authority bring stability to their states, while those unskilled invite peril. In old Qin, both ruler and ministers disregarded laws to pursue private gain, resulting in national chaos, military weakness, and sovereign humiliation. Shang Yang advised Duke Xiao of Qin to reform, establishing impartial decrees that rewarded exposure of wrongdoing while suppressing commerce to prioritize agriculture. Accustomed to old ways where crimes went unpunished and honors came without merit, Qin's people initially violated the new laws freely. Shang Yang then mandated severe penalties for offenders and generous rewards for informants. Consequently, wrongdoers found no refuge, punishments multiplied, and public grievances filled Duke Xiao's ears daily. Yet the duke persisted, and eventually people understood crimes brought inevitable punishment—secret misconduct gradually diminished.

Through historical examples, this text illustrates that statecraft cannot rely on moral persuasion alone. Instead, establishing rigorous legal systems with clear incentives and penalties—compelling subjects' obedience through calculated self-interest—forms the most stable foundation for governance.

When the common people dare not violate the laws, the state naturally becomes well-governed, the military grows strong, territories expand, and the ruler's position is exalted. This is achieved through severe punishment for concealing crimes and generous rewards for exposing wrongdoing—a governing principle that transforms all under heaven into the ruler's eyes and ears, monitoring unlawful behavior.

The truly profound methods of governance are clear, yet contemporary scholars fail to comprehend them. These ignorant scholars, entirely unaware of the crucial distinction between order and chaos, merely babble about ancient texts, thereby disrupting present-day administration. Their wisdom isn't even sufficient to avoid pitfalls, yet they recklessly criticize those who truly understand statecraft. Nations that heed their words court danger; those adopting their strategies descend into chaos—this represents the height of foolishness and harm. Though both bear the name "scholar," the difference between such men and true statesmen is as vast as between a molehill and a mountain.

The sage discerns truth from falsehood and perceives the essence of order and chaos. In governing, they establish clear laws and implement stern punishments to eliminate social unrest, eradicate the world's calamities, ensure the strong don't oppress the weak, the many don't bully the few, the elderly live out their years in peace, orphans grow up healthy, borders remain unviolated, ruler and minister maintain harmony, fathers and sons enjoy security—free from the perils of war and captivity. This constitutes the greatest achievement. The ignorant fail to understand this, instead condemning it as tyranny. While desiring national stability, they loathe the means to achieve it; though fearing crisis, they favor policies that invite disaster.

Harsh punishments may be detested by the people, yet they safeguard the state's stability; leniency and reduced penalties may please the populace, yet they lead to national peril. Therefore, when sages establish laws, they necessarily oppose vulgar preferences while conforming to the Dao (the Way) of governance. Those who comprehend this principle align with righteousness though differing from convention; the unenlightened oppose righteousness while conforming to convention. With few in the world understanding this truth, the Dao becomes mistaken. Occupying this erroneous position, besieged by slander, immersed in worldly views—yet attempting to govern strictly for stability—is this not excessively difficult? Herein lies why wise men often die unrecognized.

(Note: The reference to "Lord Chunshen, younger brother of King Zhuang of Chu" likely conflates Lord Chunshen (Huang Xie)—one of the Four Lords of the Warring States—with King Zhuang's era. This appears to be either Han Feizi's error or a later transcription mistake.)

This passage recounts an anecdote about Lord Chunshen (Prime Minister of Chu during the Warring States period), revealing the treacherous schemes in political struggles:

Lord Chunshen's concubine Yu told him: "I am someone your principal wife Jia wants to discard. To make you repudiate her, I deliberately injured myself to see you, weeping as I said: 'I'm fortunate to be your concubine, but the position of principal wife isn't meant to serve you, nor should your servant occupy that role. I lack the ability to serve two masters simultaneously. Rather than die by Jia's hand, I beg you to grant me death. If after dying I might still receive your regard, I hope you'll discern the truth clearly and not let people laugh at us.'" Lord Chunshen believed Yu's lies and repudiated his principal wife.

Later, Yu sought to kill Jia's son so her own child could inherit. She tore her undergarments and showed Lord Chunshen, weeping: "After serving you so long, Jia knows me well. Yet now her son tried to force himself upon me—we struggled until my clothes tore. Nothing could be more unfilial!" Enraged, Lord Chunshen killed Jia's son.

This story demonstrates: Even a father's love for his son can be exploited to harm him—how much more vulnerable are ruler-minister bonds without blood ties? Ministers' slanders far exceed a concubine's few words. Thus it's unsurprising that capable men like Shang Yang (torn apart by chariots in Qin) and Wu Qi (dismembered in Chu) met such ends.

As ministers, the guilty naturally avoid punishment while the incompetent crave honor. Yet when sages govern, rewards never go to the meritless, and punishments always reach the guilty. However, ministers skilled in statecraft often fall to treacherous colleagues' plots—only meeting enlightened rulers brings reprieve.

Modern scholars persuading rulers don't advocate using authority to restrain treacherous ministers, but instead empty talk of benevolence and compassion. Rulers enjoy reputations for virtue without examining results—leading to national collapse at worst, territorial loss and diminished sovereignty at best. Why? Because alms for the poor earn praise as benevolence; pity sparing punishment earns acclaim as compassion. Yet such practices reward the meritless...

This passage from Han Feizi primarily expounds on the crucial importance of severe punishments and heavy penalties in governing a state. Han Feizi argues that if a state tolerates crimes without strict retribution, chaos will persist. If rewards are granted to those without merit, the people will cease to labor diligently in the fields or fight courageously in battle, instead resorting to bribery and empty reputation-seeking to obtain high positions and lavish rewards. Consequently, treacherous ministers will multiply, riotous elements will grow increasingly brazen, and the state will inevitably approach ruin.

Severe punishments are what the people fear; heavy penalties are what they detest. Thus, enlightened rulers establish harsh laws and strict penalties to suppress wickedness and prevent deceit, thereby ensuring the state's stability and preventing chaos. From this, Han Feizi concludes that benevolence, righteousness, and kindness alone are insufficient to govern a state—only through severe punishments and heavy penalties can a country be well-administered.

He employs several analogies to illustrate this principle: Without a whip and bridle, even the most skilled charioteer, Zaofu, could not tame horses; without compasses and squares, even the most dexterous artisan, Wang Er, could not draw perfect circles or squares; without the awe of authority and a system of rewards and punishments, even sage rulers like Yao and Shun could not govern effectively. Contemporary rulers often dismiss severe punishments and heavy penalties, relying solely on benevolence and kindness—yet such an approach can never establish hegemony.

A ruler skilled in governance should establish clear reward systems to motivate the people, ensuring they earn rewards through meritorious deeds rather than relying on charitable handouts. Simultaneously, severe punishments and heavy penalties must be instituted to prohibit crimes, ensuring the people suffer consequences for wrongdoing without hope of leniency. In this way, the undeserving will not covet rewards, and the guilty will not escape justice.

Finally, Han Feizi draws parallels to charioteering and sailing: With sturdy chariots and fine steeds, one can overcome the perils of land; with light boats and efficient oars, one can traverse the dangers of rivers. Similarly, mastering the methods of law and implementing severe punishments and strict executions can achieve hegemonic success. Governing a state requires laws, rewards, and penalties just as land travel requires good chariots and horses, and water travel demands swift boats and oars. Three famed ministers—Yi Yin, Guan Zhong, and Shang Yang—all mastered the arts of hegemony, understood the methods of strengthening the state and military, and remained unswayed by conventional opinions, thereby assisting their rulers in achieving imperial and hegemonic accomplishments. Such ministers are truly invaluable.

When Tang of Shang gained the assistance of Yi Yin (a founding minister of the Shang dynasty), he established the foundation of imperial rule from a territory of merely a hundred li. Duke Huan of Qi, with the aid of Guan Zhong (the renowned statesman of the Spring and Autumn period), became the foremost of the Five Hegemons, repeatedly convening feudal lords to rectify the world's order. Duke Xiao of Qin employed Shang Yang (a representative Legalist philosopher), expanding his territory and strengthening his military. These loyal ministers ensured their rulers faced no external threats from rival states nor internal troubles from rebellious subjects, bringing enduring stability to their nations and leaving their names celebrated for posterity—these were true loyal ministers.

Consider Yu Rang (an assassin of the Spring and Autumn period), who served as a retainer to Earl Zhi (a powerful Jin state official). He neither advised his lord on the principles of statecraft to avert disaster nor led the masses to stabilize the country. Only after Earl Zhi was killed by Xiangzi of Zhao did Yu Rang lacquer his body and mutilate his face to seek vengeance for his master. Such self-mutilation to win posthumous fame for one's lord brings no actual benefit—it is as insignificant as an autumn hair, and I disdain it. Yet worldly rulers consider this loyalty and extol it.

In ancient times, Boyi and Shuqi (reclusive brothers of late Shang) refused King Wu of Zhou's offer of the empire and starved to death on Shouyang Mountain. Such ministers fear neither harsh punishments nor covet generous rewards—they cannot be restrained by penalties nor motivated by incentives. These are useless subjects whom I believe should be discarded, yet worldly rulers compete to recruit them.

The proverb says, "A leper pities the sovereign." Though irreverent, ancient sayings do not arise without cause. This refers to rulers who meet violent ends. If a sovereign lacks statecraft to control his ministers, even if he is elderly and virtuous, his officials will monopolize power, acting solely for private gain. When pressed, they may even fear that the noble clans might use the ruler's authority to restrain them, leading them to murder virtuous elder monarchs and install weak, incompetent youths—disinheriting the rightful heir in favor of illegitimate sons. Thus, the Spring and Autumn Annals records: Prince Wei of Chu, originally bound for Zheng, turned back upon hearing the king was ill and strangled him with his hat tassel during a visit, seizing the throne. Cui Zhu of Qi, whose beautiful wife was repeatedly seduced by Duke Zhuang, ordered his retainer Jia Ju to surround the duke. Though the duke begged to share the state, Cui refused, forcing him to slit his throat in the ancestral temple.

Cui Zhu (a powerful minister of the Qi state during the Spring and Autumn period) disobeyed Duke Zhuang of Qi's orders. When the duke attempted to escape by climbing the northern wall, Jia Ju (Cui Zhu's accomplice) shot him in the thigh, causing him to fall. Cui Zhu's men then hacked the duke to death with halberds and installed his younger brother as Duke Jing. In more recent times, we witnessed Li Dui (a powerful minister of Zhao) controlling King Huiwen of Zhao, imprisoning King Wuling (the former ruler) in the Shaqiu Palace until he starved to death. Likewise, when Nao Chi (a Qi general) seized power in Qi, he had King Min of Qi's tendons extracted and hung him overnight from the ancestral temple beams until he died.

Compared to these ancient rulers who suffered arrow wounds and beheadings, or more recent monarchs who endured starvation and tendon extraction, even the most painful malignant boils seem mild. Those sovereigns who fell victim to coups undoubtedly experienced greater psychological terror and physical agony than any boil sufferer. Thus, the saying "the afflicted pity kings" (厉怜王) proves quite reasonable indeed.

(Note: This passage uses historical cases to illustrate the tragic fate of rulers controlled by powerful ministers, demonstrating how ostensibly privileged monarchs often suffered more than commoners with illnesses. Han Feizi employs this as a warning for rulers to guard against ministerial usurpation.)