《淮南鴻烈解》Vol. 22

Huainan Honglie Jie, Volume 21, Shen 7

(Commentary by Xu Shen)

Quanyan Xun (The Teachings of Explanatory Words)

“Quan” means to elucidate or explain. It uses words to reveal the subtleties of the myriad things and to clarify why things are as they are and the principles they follow.

Vernacular Interpretation of the Scripture Text

Heaven and Earth were originally an undifferentiated whole, thoroughly interconnected. When chaos had not yet divided, there was only a single simple, unadorned source, and the myriad things had not yet been made or formed. This source is called Taiyi (the Great One)—that is, the original Shen (spirit) and the root that governs all beings.

The myriad things issue from the same source, yet their individual manifestations are vastly different—there are birds, fish, and beasts. This is called “dividing things.” Like kinds gather together; different kinds separate. Each has its own life-nature, different from the others, and all manifest as things with form; they are isolated from one another and cannot communicate. From this the myriad affairs and things differentiate, yet no single thing can reach that source (the “ancestor” or “root”).

To “reach the source” means to return to one’s own nature and merge with that undifferentiated source.

Therefore, all things that arise through movement and all forms that exhaust themselves through birth and death are merely “things.” It is not a transcendent “non-thing”; it is the “thing-maker of things”—the level of existence that creates and governs the myriad things (dim and indistinct, empty and void, it is not among the myriad things). This “thing-maker of things” lies hidden within the myriad things (it is the master that creates and transforms the myriad things, yet it itself does not belong to the category of things).

Tracing back to the very beginning of antiquity, humans were born from the formless and then transformed into birth within form; once they have form, they are constrained by external things. If one can return to that formless state from which one was born, one is called a Zhenren (True Person). The Zhenren is a being that has never been separated from Taiyi.

The sage is not bound by reputation (he does not let names rule him), does not store strategies in his heart, does not take the initiative to undertake affairs, and does not claim intelligence or cleverness for himself. He hides his wisdom in the formless, leaves no traces in his actions, and roams in a realm where no omens can be sought. He does not rush ahead to seek blessings, does not take the lead in inviting misfortune, holds fast to emptiness and nothingness, and acts only when he has no choice.

Those who seek blessings sometimes instead invite disaster; those who seek profit sometimes instead meet harm. Therefore, one who is at peace through Wuwei (non-action)—once he loses the root of his peace, he falls into danger; one who governs the world through non-interference—once he loses the root of his governance, he falls into chaos.

The stars are arrayed in the sky and shine, so people can point to them and say, “That is the star.” When Dao (the Way) and righteousness are arrayed within virtuous conduct (De) and become manifest, people can look at them and say, “That is Dao and righteousness.” Where people point, once there is movement, there is pattern and order; where people look, once there is action, there is a trace. Once movement has pattern, it invites discussion; once action leaves a trace, it invites criticism.

Therefore the sage hides his wisdom in the non-display of punishments, and conceals his traces in Wuwei.

Prince Qingji (nephew of King Liao of Wu. After Helü murdered Liao, Qingji, brave and vigorous, fled; Helü feared him and sent Yaoli to assassinate Qingji) in the end died by the sword.

A Plain-Language Reading of the Huainan Honglie Commentary

Yi was killed with a great peachwood club. According to legend, he was struck down with a staff made from peachwood, and from then on even ghosts feared peachwood. Zilu was cut to pieces in the state of Wei. Su Qin, known for his persuasive speeches and skill in debate, was killed by the state of Qi. People invariably value what they possess and look down on what they lack, yet often become attached to what they prize and use up what they scorn. What they prize has visible form; what they scorn is formless and leaves no trace. Thus, however powerful tigers and leopards may be, they invite hunters to shoot them; however nimble monkeys may be, they still fall into traps. Only someone who can prize what others scorn and scorn what others prize is fit to discuss the highest principles. A self-assured person is not swayed by praise or blame; a contented person is not shaken by power, position, or profit.

Therefore, one who understands human nature does not pursue what is absent from it to begin with and cannot be forced into being. One who understands Heaven’s mandate does not grieve over what fate leaves beyond one’s control. One who understands the Dao sees that nothing is lacking in things; all that is needed is to keep them in proper balance. Zhan He said, “I have never heard of a person governing himself well while his state was in disorder, or of a person in disorder himself while his state was well governed.” A carpenter’s square cannot make a square unless it is true, and a compass cannot make a circle unless it is true. A person’s own conduct is the measure for all their actions. I have never heard of anyone setting others right while failing to be upright himself.

Follow Heaven’s mandate, and you will not be confused by good or ill fortune. Set your heart and mind in order, and you will not give way to reckless joy or anger. Put your likes and dislikes in order, and you will not covet useless things. Live in keeping with your nature, and your desires will not become excessive. If you are not confused by fortune and misfortune, all your actions, whether active or still, will follow what is right. If you do not give way to reckless joy or anger, your rewards and punishments will be fair. If you do not covet useless things, you will not harm your nature for the sake of private desire. If your desires are not excessive, you will nurture your nature and know contentment. These four things need not be sought outside yourself or borrowed from another; you can find them by looking within.

The world cannot be won through clever schemes, sharp insight, practical achievement, benevolence, or force. These five are all abilities; unless De (Virtue/Power) is abundant, they cannot make anything whole. When De is firmly established, the five abilities pose no danger; when they are fully on display, De has no place. Thus, with the Dao, even the foolish have more than enough; without the Dao, even the wise fall short. If you must cross water but do not know how to swim, no matter how strong you are, you will surely sink. If you know how to swim, you need not rely on strength.

Note: The “five abilities” generally refer to cleverness, insight, practical ability, benevolence, and strength. The parenthetical material in the original, including editorial notes, has been incorporated into the translation.

No matter how few they are in number, they can ultimately be accomplished; how much more so when one relies on boats and ships? The root of governance lies in bringing stability to the people; the root of stabilizing the people lies in sufficient wealth and resources; the root of sufficiency lies in not seizing the farming seasons; the root of not seizing the farming seasons lies in reducing government affairs; the root of reducing government affairs lies in restraining desires; the root of restraining desires lies in returning to one’s original nature; the root of returning to one’s original nature lies in removing ostentation and false adornment (“zai” denotes the burden of ostentation, which is the cause of ruin). Remove ostentation, and the mind becomes empty; when the mind is empty, it becomes calm. Calmness is the true color of the Dao (the Way); emptiness is the Dao’s dwelling.

One who can possess all under Heaven must not lose his state; one who can possess his state must not lose his family; one who can govern his family must not neglect his person; one who cultivates his person must not forget his mind; one who can examine his mind must not impair his nature; one who can complete his nature must not be confused about the Dao.

Therefore Guangchengzi (an immortal of the Yellow Emperor’s time) said: Guard it carefully; close within and open without (or: to close within while knowing much without is failure). Do not look, do not listen; embrace the spirit and be still, and the body will naturally become correct. It has never happened that one fails to obtain it in oneself yet can know others. Therefore the Yi (Changes) says: “Tie up the sack; no blame and no praise.”

One who can become a hegemon or king must be one who wins victories; one who can defeat enemies must be strong; one who can be strong must use human power; one who can use human power must win people’s hearts; one who can win people’s hearts must have attained it within himself; one who can attain it within himself must be soft and weak. To overcome by strength those not equal to oneself: when they come to match one’s own strength, they will resist (when another’s strength matches one’s own, they will fight and kill one another). The strength of softness overcoming what emerges from oneself cannot be measured. Thus only the sage can use the multitude’s inability to win so as to accomplish a great victory.

Those who are good at swimming do not learn to pole a boat yet can conveniently use it; those with strong sinews do not learn to ride a horse yet can comfortably sit it. One who takes all under Heaven lightly is not burdened by things, and so can dwell in it with ease.

King Danfu (Gugong Danfu, leader of the Zhou clan) lived in Bin. The Di people attacked him. He served them with hides, silks, pearls, and jade, but they would not accept. He then took leave of the elders and moved to Qizhou. The common people carried the young and supported the old as they followed him, and thus a state was formed. Extending this meaning, that in four generations they possessed all under Heaven—was it not fitting? (The four generations are Tai Wang, Wang Ji, King Wen, and King Wu.)

Without the Dao, one perishes; with the Dao and De (Virtue/Power), one survives.

Those who set their ambition on all under Heaven must first be able to govern it. Frost, snow, rain, and dew bring the myriad things to life and put them to death, yet Heaven remains Wuwei (non-action), and people still revere Heaven. Weary of statutes and regulations and vexed by law-based administration (wearied by rigid adherence to established law and burdened by handling affairs according to law), it is officials who govern officials and manage the people, while the ruler remains Wuwei, and people still revere the ruler.

Hou Ji opened up wasteland, Yu the Great dredged rivers and channels, Gao Yao judged cases with fairness, and Yao spread a sage reputation far and wide. Therefore, one who attains the Dao (the Way) governs all under Heaven through the Dao: even if he is not personally omnicompetent, he must make capable people serve him; without attaining the Dao, even abundant skills are of no benefit.

When boats cross a river, if an empty boat drifts over from one side and collides with another, even if one is mentally on guard, one will certainly show no resentment. But if there is a person on that boat—one person saying to raise the sail, another saying to lower it (the boatman furls the sail near shore and spreads it far from shore)—and repeated calls receive no answer, one will inevitably follow with an angry shout, while the other party does not become angry—because the boat was empty before and is solid now (an empty boat is like emptiness, hence no anger; when there is a person it is solid, hence anger). If a person can make himself empty and wander in the world, who can criticize him?

To leave the Dao and rely on cleverness is surely perilous; to abandon constant norms and employ talent is surely to be trapped. Some perish because of many desires; none have been seen to be endangered because of having no desires. Some bring disorder by ruling through desire; none have been seen to lose by keeping to constancy. Thus cleverness is not enough to avoid misfortune, and foolishness is not enough to bring loss. Better to keep one’s allotment and follow principle: do not grieve at loss, do not rejoice at gain. What is completed is not done by oneself; what is obtained is not sought. In what comes in, one receives but does not take; in what goes out, one gives but does not confer. Following spring to give life and following autumn to kill, those given life do not regard it as virtue, and those killed do not resent it—then one is close to the Dao.

The sage does not perform blameworthy actions, nor hate others for criticizing him; he cultivates virtue sufficient for praise, but does not seek praise from others. He cannot make misfortune never arrive, but he trusts that he does not welcome it; he cannot make fortune necessarily come, but he trusts that he does not force it (rang: to push away or forcibly seek). Misfortune’s arrival is not produced by his seeking, so he is not worried in adversity; fortune’s arrival is not accomplished by his seeking, so he is not boastful in success (jin: to vaunt one’s own merit). He knows that the control of misfortune and fortune does not lie with himself.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." It conveys that sages remain content with their present state, cherish tranquility, safeguard what they already possess, and refrain from forcibly pursuing what they lack. Those who constantly chase after unattained things may end up losing what they already have. Just as in warfare—one must first secure an invincible position before awaiting opportunities to defeat the enemy—governing a state requires consolidating one’s foundation before resisting external threats.

Emperor Shun cultivated virtue (De) at Mount Li, and the world naturally submitted to him; King Wen of Zhou implemented virtuous governance in Qizhou, and the customs of the people transformed accordingly. Had Shun pursued worldly gains while neglecting self-cultivation, he would have struggled to preserve himself, let alone possess territory. Thus, if governance fails to eliminate chaos at its root, superficial order only invites greater danger; if actions are taken recklessly for fame before ensuring their correctness, failure is inevitable.

The greatest blessing is the absence of misfortune; the best gain is to suffer no loss. The natural course of things dictates: without progress, there is regression; without success, there is failure; without benefit, there is harm—all of which are perilous. The State of Qin triumphed over the Western Rong tribes but was defeated by Jin at Mount Yao; Chu conquered the Central Plains but fell to Wu at Boju. These examples demonstrate how hasty pursuit of gain invites calamity.

The true Dao cannot be used to chase profit, but it can help one avoid disaster. Sages harbor no greed, neither deliberately seeking fortune nor clinging to fame. They stand like the center of a crossroads, allowing others to come and go while remaining steadfast and upright. They neither force acts of kindness nor commit intentional wrongs, instead following natural principles—neither rushing ahead nor asserting dominance, but aligning with the timing of heaven. By neither coveting what they lack nor losing what they possess, misfortune and fortune cease to arrive without cause.

Good deeds draw attention, while misdeeds invite criticism—attention brings pressure, and criticism invites calamity. Therefore, the methods of the Dao should not be employed for fame or profit but for self-cultivation; not for personal gain, but for avoiding harm.

Plain-Language Interpretation

The Sage Does Not Seek Fame or Cleverness

To avoid harm, the sage does not seek a reputation through action and does not win praise through cleverness—this is the principle for conducting oneself in the world.

Cultivating one’s natural original nature, one has nothing to contend over and few thoughts. Human action ultimately has its failures; human seeking ultimately has its non-attainments. Human beings are finite, but the Dao (the Way) is unobstructed everywhere. To contend with the Dao brings misfortune; hence the Book of Songs says: do not deliberately contrive awareness, do not force knowledge, but follow the norms of the Heavenly Thearch.

To have wisdom but not act recklessly is to share the path of those without wisdom; to have ability but not multiply affairs is to share the De (Virtue/Power) of those without ability. One’s wisdom is perceived only when an informant arrives; one’s movement is perceived only when a driver arrives—having wisdom as if without wisdom, having ability as if without ability, taking the principle of the Dao as the standard.

Merit, Fame, and the Dao

Thus, though one’s merit covers the world, one does not boast of its excellence; though one’s benefits reach later generations, one does not claim its name. When the principle of the Dao runs freely, human artifice disappears. Fame and the Dao cannot both be manifest: if people covet fame, the Dao is not used; if the Dao prevails in a person, fame naturally ceases. When the Dao and a person contend for superiority, if the person is prominent the Dao is hidden; if the person is ostentatious and the Dao is stopped, danger is not far away.

Therefore, when the world has the name of sagehood, the day of decline arrives. Those who wish to occupy fame must do good; those who wish to do good must create affairs. Once affairs arise, people abandon public concerns for private ones and employ techniques according to their own will. If one wishes to be praised for doing good and to gain fame by establishing a reputation, then governance is not cultivated through established practice and affairs are not undertaken according to the times. When governance is not cultivated through established practice, there is much blame; when affairs are not undertaken according to the times, there is no merit. With much blame and little merit, and no way to remedy it, one recklessly launches projects to invite merit and recklessly acts to hit the mark. Even the completion of merit is insufficient to compensate for the failure of affairs, and insufficient to shield one’s person. Therefore, to take doing good as seriously as doing wrong is close to the Dao.

Without Intention, Without Desire

The world is not without trustworthy people, yet when facing goods and dividing wealth they must draw lots to determine shares, thinking that those with intention are not as good as those without intention when it comes to fairness. The world is not without honest people, yet those guarding precious treasures must shut doors and seal everything completely, thinking that those with desire are not as good as those without desire when it comes to honesty.

When others point out one’s flaws, one resents them; when a mirror reveals one’s ugliness, one considers it a good mirror—the mirror shows the ugliness, and people instead resent the mirror; this is an inverted analogy.

A Vernacular Interpretation of the Huainan Honglie Jie

Using beauty and ugliness as a mirror, one can reflect good and evil. If people can deal with things without reckoning benefit and harm as their own, they will not be burdened. Not inserting oneself into it is like a mirror reflecting a person’s face: it does not produce love or hate because the other is beautiful or ugly.

Gongsun Long’s debating talent stood out, but he traded on bizarre arguments for fame (such as “a white horse is not a horse,” “ice is not cold,” “charcoal is not hot,” and similar claims, which were mocked as peddling empty reputation). Deng Xi was eloquent and persuasive, yet he disrupted the legal order (he taught the people of Zheng how to litigate; lawsuits never ceased, and Zichan therefore killed him). Su Qin excelled at persuasion but died in Qi. In governing a state, if one follows the upright Dao (the Way), goodness need not be flaunted; in clarifying affairs, cleverness need not seek fame. Contending by cleverness often begins in Yang and ends in Yin (intelligence and skill are used in the open, while the outcome often falls on the dark side). Governing by intelligence and strategy often begins in order and ends in chaos.

Making water flow downward is something anyone can do; to drive water upward, only clever technique can do it. Therefore, when literary adornment is excessive, plain substance is obscured; when depraved cleverness prevails, the upright Dao is blocked. De (Virtue/Power) can only cultivate oneself; it cannot force others. The Dao can only govern oneself; it cannot force others not to fall into disorder. Even with the endowments of a worthy sage, if one does not encounter an age of violence and disorder, one may preserve oneself, but not necessarily achieve the role of king or hegemon. The kingly enterprises of Tang and Wu came about because they met with the violence of Jie and Zhou; it was not that Jie and Zhou became violent because Tang and Wu were worthy and enlightened, but that Tang and Wu rose because they encountered the violence of Jie and Zhou. Thus a worthy king must also wait for timing and fortune; being able to accomplish things in one’s age cannot be achieved by intelligence and strategy alone.

The noble person cultivates conduct so that goodness is not flaunted, and gives charity so that benevolence is not advertised. Scholars practice goodness without knowing where goodness comes from; the common people enjoy benefits without knowing where benefits arise—thus there is governance by Wuwei (non-action). If goodness is flaunted, scholars contend for reputation; if benefits have visible roots, the common people contend for merit. When both contentions arise together, even the worthy cannot govern. Therefore the sage covers the traces of “doing good” and extinguishes the name of “being benevolent.”

Making external alliances, drawing in outside support, and handling great affairs in search of security is not as good as internally cultivating government affairs and acting when the time comes. In serving others, one need not rely only on wealth and treasure; often humble words are also required. If one only sends jade and silk, wealth is exhausted while the other’s desires remain unsatisfied; if one only humbles oneself and uses tactful words, even if one speaks until the relationship is worn out, a bond is still hard to form; if one relies on binding oaths and covenants, even when the terms are settled, the heart is still not convinced.

(Note: The phrase “beginning in Yang and often ending in Yin” and similar expressions usually mean that cleverness and adornment start with surface splendor and often end by falling into darkness or confusion. This follows the same thread as the later statements “when adornment prevails, plainness is obscured” and “those who govern the state by cleverness begin in order and often end in chaos.”)

The day of "fan" (rebellion) will inevitably come. Even if one cuts out from the state even the tiniest benefits like a zī or chuí (ancient weight units: six liang make one zī, double a zī is a chuí) to curry favor with others, if there is no "way of self-reliance" (the foundation of standing on one's own), it is still insufficient for preservation.

If one can truly set aside external scheming and alliances, and carefully manage internal affairs: exhaust the land's productivity, accumulate reserves, inspire the people to be willing to die defending the city, with superiors and subordinates of one heart, ruler and ministers sharing the same purpose, together guarding the state and willing to die without dispersing—then the attacking side will not attack an "innocent" state without cause, and those seeking profit will not dare to invade lightly. This is the path that is hard to breach and can preserve the state.

"The people have a common way they follow, and common laws they observe" (the path the people walk and the laws they keep should have a common standard): Relying solely on "righteousness" cannot bind people; relying solely on "authority" cannot suppress people. Therefore, a ruler is established to "unify the people" (bring the myriad people into unity). If the ruler "holds fast to the One," there is order; without constancy, there is chaos. The "way of the ruler" is not for acting arbitrarily, but for "non-action" (wuwei): the wise do not disrupt affairs because of their position, the brave do not become tyrannical because of their position, the benevolent do not invite trouble because of their position—this is called wuwei. Only through wuwei can one "attain the One"; the One is the root of all things and the way of being invincible.

Human nature: in youth, frivolous and reckless; in prime, violent and forceful; in old age, fond of profit—even a single person changes several times, let alone a ruler repeatedly changing his laws or a state repeatedly changing its ruler? People indulge their likes and dislikes according to their position, and the byways and divergent paths below are countless. Therefore, when the ruler loses his "One," the chaos is worse than when there was no ruler. Thus the Shi Jing says, "Without error, without forgetting, follow the old statutes"—this is what it means.

If the ruler is fond of cleverness, he will go against the times and rely on himself, abandon method and use his own deliberations—the affairs of the world are vast but his intelligence is shallow; using the shallow to fathom the vast, none can succeed. Relying solely on his own cleverness, he will often miscalculate; thus "being fond of cleverness exhausts technique" (the love of cleverness instead depletes method). If he is fond of bravery, he will underestimate the enemy and neglect preparations, rely on himself and reject help from others, surround a strong enemy with his own strength alone, not relying on the multitude but using only his personal ability—he will certainly not win; thus "being fond of bravery imperils technique" (the love of bravery instead puts method in danger). If he is fond of bestowing gifts, then superior and inferior have no fixed share: when the superior has no fixed share, the excessive desires of the inferior are endless; if he levies heavy taxes to fill the treasury, he will compete with the people for profit…

(The following continues with the original text's sentences such as "then with," meaning: competing with the people for profit causes the people to turn away; competing with subordinates for power causes subordinates to doubt; all these lose the "way of the ruler" of "non-action" and "holding fast to the One." The main point of the whole passage: preservation lies in actual governance within the state, ruler and ministers of one heart, guarding the "One" and "non-action," not in ceding land to serve others, nor in partial use of cleverness, bravery, or benevolence as a single extreme.)

Vernacular Interpretation

When the common people make enemies, it is often because there is little giving and much taking; such cases are countless. Thus what you think is “doing a favor” may be received by the other as a grievance.

This is the way of benevolence, wisdom, courage, and strength. Benevolence, wisdom, courage, and strength are fine human talents, yet none is sufficient by itself to govern the world.

From this we see that worthiness and ability are not enough to be relied upon; what can truly be cultivated and clarified is the Dao and its techniques.

The sage overcomes [desire through] the mind; ordinary people are overcome by desire. In “victory of the mind,” desire arises in the mind, but the sage can stop desire; hence “the mind overcomes desire,” and he takes the heart of the common people as his own heart. In “victory of desire,” ordinary people have desires in their minds but cannot suppress them; they are led along by desire.

The noble person practices upright Qi; the petty person practices deviant Qi. Upright Qi inwardly accords with nature and outwardly with rightness; it moves according to principle and is not bound to things. Deviant Qi indulges in flavors, sounds, and sensual sights; once joy or anger erupts, consequences are ignored.

Deviant and upright injure each other; desire and nature harm each other. They cannot both stand: one survives, the other is discarded. The sage diminishes desire and follows nature: the eyes love beauty, the ears love sounds, the mouth loves flavors; upon contact they rejoice, not knowing harm or benefit—this is called craving desire. When eating leaves the body uneasy, when hearing is not in accord with the Dao, when seeing is not beneficial to nature, this is the mutual contention of the three palaces (eating, seeing, and hearing)—one must regulate them by rightness and control them through the mind.

Cutting open a boil or carbuncle is painful, and drinking poisonous medicine is bitter, yet one does it for the body’s benefit; drinking water when thirsty is pleasant, and eating heavily when hungry brings fullness, yet if it harms nature one does not do it. The eyes, ears, nose, and mouth do not know what to choose or reject; the mind regulates them so that each finds its proper place. From this it is clear that desire must not be allowed to prevail.

In all governing the body and nurturing nature: moderate sleeping and resting, make food and drink appropriate, harmonize joy and anger, and make movement and stillness comfortable. If these are kept inwardly in oneself, deviant Qi will not arise. How can that compare with waiting until anxieties, abdominal masses, blemishes, boils, and carbuncles have broken out and then making preparations? Better to nurture the body well in ordinary times.

When the cauldron that can hold an ox—a great cauldron large enough to contain an ox—boils, flies and gnats dare not enter; the jade of Mount Kunlun cannot be soiled by dust or dirt. The sage has no mind to “remove ugliness,” and so his mind has no ugliness; he has no mind to “grasp beauty,” and so beauty is not lost. Therefore in sacrifice he remembers his kin and does not seek blessings.

This passage expounds on the Daoist philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)." The essential meaning is:

Those who are truly noble do not rely on personal talent, but uphold impartiality and selflessness; those who possess the world do not depend on clever strategies, but follow the constant Dao (the Way). When rulers refrain from internal oppression, the people harbor no resentment; when they avoid external displays of ability, feudal lords feel no suspicion. Thus harmony prevails between high and low—appearing as non-action yet containing the great Dao.

Yu the Great controlled floods by following water's nature; Houji cultivated crops by complying with earth's patterns; Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou quelled rebellions by aligning with heaven's timing. The world can be naturally obtained, not seized by force; hegemony can be naturally received, not demanded through striving. The wise may debate others, the strong may wrestle others, but true mastery makes others unable to deploy their wisdom or strength against you.

When enlightened rulers avoid deliberate displays, feudal lords remain unguarded; when they conceal shortcomings, the people voice no complaints. Thus they win popular support and grasp the world's momentum. Sages act like ordinary people yet achieve through timely accord. As Laozi said: "The tiger finds no place to sink its claws, the rhinoceros no spot to thrust its horn." For sages remain profoundly concealed—never initiating conflict but responding to circumstances.

The drum doesn't vanish through sounding, thus sustains its voice; the mirror doesn't disappear through reflecting, thus images all things. Metal and stone sound only when struck, pipes remain silent until blown. Sages maintain inward restraint, never rushing ahead, responding only when situations arise. Excessive external adornment injures the inner self; losing one's innate nature harms the spirit (Shen); obsession with surfaces obscures the essence.

A Vernacular Reading of the Huainan Honglie Jie

With a mind fixed only on “what counts as having substance and appearance,” yet unwilling to follow one’s nature and spontaneity, one’s original nature is instead bound. If, after walking a hundred paces, one is still concerned with one’s deportment, the body cannot be at ease. When wings are too splendid, the bones are burdened—swans and wild geese can rise a thousand li in a single flight, their bodies as light as dust and mist, precisely because their wings are so beautiful. When branches and leaves are too luxuriant, root and stem suffer. In the world there is scarcely any beauty that has both at once.

Heaven is bright by nature; it need not worry that the people’s rooms are dark—when the people themselves cut doors and open windows, they can borrow the light. Earth is inherently rich in resources; it need not worry that the people are poor—when the people themselves fell trees and clear brush, they can make a living. The Way of Supreme De is solid and unmoving like a mound; those who walk take it as the destination they are to reach.

A mountain keeps only to its own lot, yet it is enough to nourish the ten thousand things—the mountain grows grass and trees of itself to nourish the people; it does not grow them to please anyone. It does not deliberately bestow, and those who use it need not owe it any favor; thus it is quiet and able to bring the ten thousand things to completion. Heaven and Earth do not “give” anything to people, so no one is “deprived”; the sun and moon do not advertise their kindness, so no one resents them. People who love small advantages attract especially much resentment; people who love to bestow often also love to seize. Only one who erases his traces in Wuwei (non-action) and follows the spontaneity of Heaven and Earth can overcome li and desire (li here means reason, emotion, and desire; to “overcome li” is to set them aside).

But once reputation exists, the Dao (the Way) becomes distorted; once the Dao is distorted, people no longer keep their proper station. Thus as soon as praise arises, slander follows; as soon as profit begins, harm lies in ambush; as soon as fortune shows its head, disaster is often already behind it. Only those who do not chase profit suffer less harm; only those who do not seek fortune invite less disaster. One who is already a feudal lord and still wants to become hegemon cannot keep his feudal lordship; one who is already a hegemon and still wants to become king cannot keep his hegemony. Thus for a state, wholeness is the root, and kingship is merely a temporary lodging; for life, being alive is the root, and wealth and honor are merely a temporary lodging. One who can refrain from harming his own state out of greed for the profits of the world, and can refrain from harming himself in order to preserve the state—such a person is fit to be entrusted with the world. This means that only one who does not covet the profits of the world is qualified to receive the world’s trust.

Those who do not understand the Dao abandon what is already in their hands to pursue what they have not yet obtained. They torment their minds with anxiety and take crooked shortcuts. When fortune comes they rejoice; when disaster comes they fear. Their spirit is worn out in scheming, their cleverness exhausted on affairs. Fortune and disaster keep multiplying, and in a whole lifetime they rarely find peace.

To regret what one has done and instead blame others (disaster and blessing both arise from oneself, not from others). When the heart is displeased it becomes sorrowful; the inner mind is never calm, and there is no self-restraint—this is called the wild scholar (at times there is no self-restraint; what restrains is not true virtue, and so one becomes a wild scholar).

When a ruler loves benevolence, those without merit receive rewards and those with guilt are pardoned; when he loves punishment, those with merit are dismissed and those without guilt are killed. As for the ruler without preferences: he executes and no one resents him, he bestows benefits and does not seek repayment, he sets aside the plumb line and follows the laws and measures, and he does not personally enter into government affairs. Like Heaven and Earth, how could he fail to cover and support the myriad things? Thus, what gathers and contains them is the ruler; what establishes standards and carries out executions is the law. Once the people have been subjected to execution, resentment has no place to dissipate—this is called the Dao. When the Dao prevails, people are at peace.

The sage has no clothes that do not fit him (short jacket and long trousers; wearing what does not fit is a calamity); he has no eccentric conduct. His clothes are not ostentatious (the clothes he wears are not looked at by the crowd); his conduct is not ostentatious; his words are not contentious. He is penetrating without being flashy, impoverished without fear, honored without revealing it, withdrawn without being reduced to poverty, extraordinary without appearing bizarre; his appearance is not the same as the crowd’s, and he cannot be named—this is called the Great Penetration.

To rise and descend, bow and yield, hurry and circulate—these are done only when one has no alternative; they are not what one possesses by nature. When feeling lacks verification (feeling without verification is not what one delights in), one does what cannot be avoided (those who bow and yield do so because they cannot help it), and one does not deliberately fabricate ornament—how could this be intentional? (It is not intentional: one encounters what is timely and fitting and so establishes ritual; it is not done by design.)

Therefore, one who sings because he cannot help it is not intentionally grieving; one who dances because he cannot help it is not intentionally making a display. Singing and dancing without intentionally grieving or making a display both come from having no rooted heart (when the heart has no root, one forces grief and display). One skilled at board games does not crave victory (in games and chess, one does not let the desire to win injure one’s planning), does not fear losing, calms the mind and settles the will, and grasps what is balanced and fitting (he attains what is appropriate). His actions follow the principle of things; though he need not win, he will surely take many counters. Why? Victory lies in calculation, not in desire (the desire to win).

One who races chariots does not covet being first (in chariot racing, one gallops), nor fear being alone last; slow and fast are adjusted by the hand, and the mind that drives is attuned to the horses. Though he may not be first, he will certainly not fall behind.

One must first establish “number”—rules, order, and standards—and must not begin by indulging desire. Why? Because the key is that “number” comes first, not “desire.” Thus, if one can extinguish desire, “number” will prevail; if one can abandon cleverness—petty cleverness and calculating tricks—the Dao can be established.

There are many ways to do business, yet the merchant becomes poor; the artisan has a jumble of skills, yet becomes destitute. In both cases, the mind is not focused. A tree that grows too large harms its own branches; water that spreads too deep and wide undermines the depth of its focus. Wisdom without technique is like a drill that cannot bore through: however wise one may be, and however firmly one drills, without technique one still cannot get through. If one pursues a hundred branches without a single guiding principle, even an occasional success cannot be sustained. Thus the Book of Odes says: “The worthy gentleman’s bearing is one.” The mind should be as single as a knot. Does the gentleman bind his intention to “the One”?

Shun played the five-string zither—the ancient zither had five strings, later expanded to seven with the addition of the seven pitch standards in the Zhou period—and sang the “South Wind” poem, a song of harmonious winds, to govern the realm. The Duke of Zhou left the choice meat from a shoulder scattered in the courtyard and did not gather it up; he left the bells and drums hanging on their frames and did not take them down. By assisting King Cheng in this way, he brought peace to the lands within the seas. An ordinary man with a hundred mu of farmland, together with his wife, had no leisure to open the door and go about their daily lives, nor any opportunity to move elsewhere—because others were doing the work for them.

If one person were to attend to all the affairs of the realm, there would be time to spare each day, yet not enough time to govern. So others must be made to act. The person in the highest position should be like the corpse in a sacrifice, who sits motionless as the recipient of offerings; those who hold office should be like the ritual officiants and stewards. Though the corpse might be able to skin a dog or roast a pig, it does not do so. Because it does not act, it may know the order of the meat dishes on the altar and the sequence of the millet and grain offerings, but it does not instruct others in them. By not acting, it avoids causing harm. Someone who cannot officiate should not be made an officiant, though that does not prevent them from serving as the ritual corpse. Someone who cannot drive should not be made a charioteer, though that does not prevent them from assisting the ruler.

Thus, the higher one’s position, the more at ease one’s person; the greater one’s authority, the fewer one’s tasks. It is like tuning a zither: the small strings are taut, while the large strings must be slack. Wuwei (non-action) is the Dao’s substance; holding to what comes after is the Dao’s form. Using non-action to govern action is a technique; using what comes after to govern what comes before is a principle. Applying technique makes one forceful; understanding the principle brings tranquility.

When two people are given a jade disk from the Bian family, the one who has not yet received it comes first—the one who reaches out first to claim it takes precedence. The one who asks for it and has it delivered, even if resentful, does not resist, comes last. When three people share a lodging and two of them argue, each believes they are in the right.

The Huainan Honglie Jie illustrates the wisdom of "governing movement with stillness" and "mastering complexity through simplicity" through various life examples.

When two upright individuals are locked in dispute, even a foolish bystander's judgment will be accepted by both parties—not because the arbiter is wiser, but because they remain detached from the conflict. Just as when two people fight, the intervention of a weaker third party can decide the outcome—the weak overcomes the strong not through force but through non-participation. This demonstrates that responding after others act and controlling movement with stillness aligns with the natural order of the Dao.

Those who violate this principle by rushing for quick results and altering constant ways may seem to seize opportunities but actually stray from the true path. Such individuals resemble madmen: retreating at setbacks, becoming arrogant when blessed, regretting only after errors, and growing proud with achievements—never understanding self-reflection. True masters act in accordance with rules, their conduct measured and dignified, like ancient rites where one holds sacrificial lambs and deer (symbolizing gentleness and unity), moving with the orderly grace of a herd yet maintaining solemnity even in stillness.

Yet moderation is key: meticulous practices like neatly arranging vegetables, steadying jars, or measuring rice before cooking suit household management; rituals like washing cups before pouring wine or bathing before meals belong to serving elders—governing states and commanding armies demand grander vision. The greatest music is invariably unadorned, the most solemn rites inherently simple, for only simplicity can embrace heaven and earth. Truly sublime music leaves no resentment, perfect ritual incurs no blame—only thus can one lead all under heaven.

Human nature reveals that when sorrow fills the heart, even the softest bedding brings no rest, delicacies like wild rice and fatty beef lose their flavor, and melodies of zithers and pipes bring no joy. Only by resolving worries can one eat well, sleep soundly, and live contentedly. Thus life inherently contains joy, death its own sorrow. Forcing pleasures beyond one's nature damages innate happiness—even possessing the world's wealth or the Son of Heaven's status may render one pitiable. For human nature fundamentally seeks ease and avoids toil, the spirit eternally yearning for boundless freedom.

This passage elucidates the Daoist realms of self-cultivation and worldly wisdom.

It first describes a transcendent state of being: when the body maintains purity through wuwei (non-action), this is called "tranquility"; when the mind wanders freely, this is "ease." By emptying physical form and aligning with natural rhythms, one finds inner joy without forcing external demands. Even when facing the entire world, such a person won't alter their principles; when the sun and moon hide their courses, it doesn't disturb their resolve (here "hidden" means concealed, while "untainted" signifies immunity to worldly desires). Thus they remain composed like nobility despite humble status, and content like the wealthy despite material poverty.

Next, it presents five supreme states: The Great Dao has no fixed form; Great Benevolence shows no partiality; Great Debate requires no words; Great Integrity needs no affected humility; Great Courage flaunts no aggression. Mastering these five brings one near the Dao. Just as excessive military decrees cause chaos, or banquet rules breed quarrels—elaborate beginnings often end tragically, while simple starts achieve fulfillment. Nowadays people use fine wines and obsequious manners to curry favor, intending to strengthen bonds, yet drinking disputes turn friends into foes—this reveals banquets' inherent harm.

The text further criticizes four deviations: The Book of Songs' corruption leads people astray (originally reflecting decadent-era customs, mislearned by petty minds); Music's distortion breeds satire (e.g., "Deer Cry" was a feast song, but when rulers hoard wine unreasonably, subjects compose mocking verses—this is wrong); Ritual's degeneration demands repayment (reciprocity is proper, but calculating benevolence is erroneous). Just as the zhi note contains yu tones, and yu notes contain zhi—the five tones inherently interpenetrate yet are named by their dominant note. Sages embody humanity, righteousness, wisdom and courage but are simply called "sagely," emphasizing the essential quality.

Finally, it employs yin-yang dynamics as metaphor: Yang qi arises northeast and fades southwest; yin qi emerges southwest and recedes northeast. In their nascent states, both maintain harmonious balance (implying humans should preserve primordial simplicity).

A Plain-Language Interpretation of the Huainan Honglie Jie

Yang Qi begins to grow steadily from the Great Cold. Things of the same kind push against one another and vie for space, though they are far removed from the extremes of Great Cold and Great Heat: at one extreme, sand is scorched; at the other, water freezes solid. For this reason, the sage is cautious about the causes and foundations that he “accumulates” within himself.

Water flows from the mountains into the sea; crops grow in the fields and are stored in granaries. From the beginning, one can infer the destination. The first material for woven mats is guan, a kind of grass used in mat-making, and sun, a reed-like plant. The most honored vessel at a wine libation is the dark vessel, which holds pure water and is the most revered wine vessel in ritual. The first offering placed on the sacrificial stand is raw fish. The food served in the wooden vessels is great soup, made without the five seasonings. None of these is pleasing to the ear or palate, yet the former kings prized them. In ancestral temple sacrifices, they honored the root and set little store by the branches.

When the sage engages with things, he meets countless changes. Yet there must be something unchanging that can respond to change. Cold and warmth are opposites: in severe cold, the earth cracks and water freezes, but fire is no weaker for it; in intense heat, stones melt and metal flows, but fire is no stronger for it. The alternation of cold and heat neither diminishes nor augments fire’s essential nature. In the same way, a person’s inborn nature cannot be altered by external fire.

The sage is always behind rather than ahead, always responding rather than initiating. He does not press forward to seek, nor does he retreat to yield. He follows the time: if it is with him for three years, when it departs, he goes first. If time lags behind him by three years, he neither departs nor advances, but holds to the center and stands firm. Heaven’s Way shows no favoritism; it supports only De. One who has the Way does not miss the proper time, and gives to people who should receive; one who lacks the Way misses the proper time and takes from others. He makes himself upright and awaits his fate: when fate departs, it cannot be met on its way; when it returns, it cannot be pursued. If one forces a barrier in its path, trying to make it coincide with one’s wishes, the time that has passed cannot be summoned back. Thus one should not say, “I practice Wuwei, and yet the world keeps its distance,” or, “I have no desire, and yet the world does not come.”

Those in ancient times who preserved themselves took joy in De and forgot low status, so fame could not sway their resolve. They took joy in the Dao and forgot poverty, so profit could not move their hearts. Even when fame and profit fill the world, they cannot obscure such a person’s purpose. Thus one can embrace things and still be joyful, remain still and be tranquil. Only someone who has cultivated himself can be spoken with about the Dao.

The primordial ages before one’s birth are already very remote; the stretch from one’s death to the endless expanse of Heaven and Earth is even longer. If one counts by the cycles of life, a human life runs from birth through the Hai hour as one complete circuit. To worry over the world’s disorder is like fearing that a river has too little water and weeping as one pours more in. A tortoise lives for three thousand years because it can expel the old and take in the new. A mayfly lives for no more than three days; it is a small insect of the qulü type, born and dead within three days. If someone asked a mayfly to worry on a tortoise’s behalf about preserving life, people would laugh. So only those who do not fret over the world’s disorder, but take joy in bringing order to themselves, are fit to speak with about the Dao.

When a noble person does good, this cannot guarantee that wealth and honor will come; refraining from wrongdoing cannot guarantee that misfortune will stay away. Since blessings arrive without being sought, one does not boast of one’s merit. Since misfortune arrives without being caused by one’s actions, one does not regret one’s conduct. When inner cultivation is brought to its utmost, calamities that strike from without are all due to Heaven, not to people. Thus the heart remains calm and indifferent, while De is steadily accumulated. One is not startled by a barking dog, trusting one’s own true nature. Those who understand the Dao are not confused; those who understand their allotted fate do not worry.

A ruler of ten thousand chariots may ultimately have his bones buried in the wilderness, yet his spirit is still worshipped in the ancestral hall. The spirit is more valued than the body: the ruler’s spirit is in the hall while his bodily remains lie in the wilderness. Thus, when the spirit governs, the body follows. This means that feelings and desires are kept from arising, and the body follows the heart in harmony. When the body prevails, the spirit is exhausted: this means that the body’s agitation overpowers the spirit, which then departs. Even when using one’s intelligence, one must return to the spirit. To use intelligence inwardly to preserve clarity allows the spirit to be at peace and the body to remain whole. This is called Great Harmony (taichong; “harmony” means being in balance).