《淮南鴻烈解》Vol. 4

Huainan Honglie Jie, Volume Four, “Chuzhen Xun” (Part Two): A Vernacular Interpretation

Xu Shen, Libationer to the Grand Commandant, composed a commentary on the Huainanzi.

If people only agitate their Shen (spirit) and deplete their Jing and Qi, while their minds constantly chase fame and profit outward, they are effectively losing their Shen and departing from the “dwelling” where the spirit resides. Thus one who fears cold in winter still wants to wear more in spring; one who fears heat in summer still longs for cool breezes in autumn—when there is illness within the body, the complexion will reveal it. The cen tree (kulimu, which grows in the mountains; when its bark is stripped and soaked in water it yields a blue-green liquid that can wash the eyes and treat cataracts) has a blue-green color and can cure eye cataracts; Luo, Meng, Bo, Luo, Wo, Huan, and the like are also all medicines that brighten the eyes. If people seek such things without cause, it is mostly because their eyesight is already dim. What sages use to shake the world, Zhenren (True Persons) never do; what worthies use to correct the customs of the age, sages never look at.

A shallow puddle made by an ox’s hoof (cen, a little pit of accumulated water) cannot raise a carp one chi long; a small mound (kuaifu, in the Chenliu region) cannot grow timber one zhang tall—both because their confines are too narrow to hold anything large. How much less could one use “non-being” (the formless, without enclosing boundary) to contain it? This is far from the capacity of mountains and abysses to hold great things. When people are bound by worldly affairs, their bodies constrained, and their spirit leaks outward, they cannot avoid weakness and illness. If I can still be tied by ropes, then my life must be tied to external things. In an age of the highest De, people slept peacefully in a boundless, undifferentiated realm and roamed at leisure in the vast, limitless heaven and earth—there primal Qi transformed and generated, before the distinctions of form and life had yet emerged.

This passage from the Huainan Honglie Jie (Huainanzi) discusses the ideal state in high antiquity, when sages lived in harmony with heaven and earth, the myriad things, and the Qi of Yin-Yang, and the later decline of the world as the human heart gradually departed from pure simplicity. The following explains it sentence by sentence in plain language.

(This is the root of spirit. Thus when Lu Ao saw the scholar Ruoshi, he said, “I have an appointment with Hanman above the ninefold heavens”; this refers to dwelling in the vastness.) The sage can lift and grasp heaven and earth, discard the myriad things, take Hongmeng—the eastern field where the sun rises, a metaphor for the first opening of chaos—as a luminous pillar, and roam floating in the boundless realm without limits. Tijie means to lift and hold, indicating not being enslaved by things but holding together with heaven and earth. Wei means to discard, not being enslaved by the body. Hongmeng is the eastern field, where the sun comes out, a metaphor for chaos and vastness. Jingzhu: jing is sunlight, zhu is support, meaning to rely on Hongmeng. Fuyang means to float and roam. Wu chenya means without boundary or edge.

(One hand says: tijie is lifting; wei is discarding. This says not to enslave the body to things. Hongmeng is the eastern field where the sun rises, hence used as jingzhu; fuyang is like soaring; wu chenya is boundary, hence used as a name.) Therefore the sage breathes the Qi of Yin-Yang, and none of the living beings fails to look up to his De with reverence and comply harmoniously. Breathing the Qi of Yin-Yang means breathing together with the Yin-Yang Qi of heaven and earth, a metaphor for union with the Dao. Yongyongran is the appearance of raising the head and looking up to De.

At that time, no one governed or divided hidden secrets, yet all was self-completed, vast and dark-green, with pure simplicity not yet scattered. (Hunhun cangcang is the appearance of chaotic vastness; hence it says pure simplicity not yet scattered.) Pangbo formed one whole, and the myriad things were greatly abundant. (You means abundant.) Mo zhi lingli jue li yinmi means no one governed, divided, or separated hidden secrets, a metaphor for natural completion without human cutting apart. Hunhun cangcang is chaotic vastness. Pangbo wei yi means blending and merging into one. Dayou means great abundance.

Therefore even if there were Yi’s wisdom, there would be no use for it. (This speaks of high antiquity: people merely rested contentedly, and order transformed itself; hence it says even with Yi’s wisdom there was no use for it. This Yi is the Yi of Yao’s time, able to shoot the ten suns, bind the great wind, kill Yayu, behead the nine infants, and shoot the River Lord—a wisdom and skill, not the Hou Yi of Youqiong.) When the world declined and reached Fuxi, his Dao was dim and vast; he sang of De and embraced harmony. Yi here is the Yi of Yao’s time, skilled in archery, a figure of wisdom and skill; high antiquity did not use wisdom and skill, hence “no use for it.” Fuxi ruled the world by the De of Wood and was titled Taihao. Meimei means pure and thick. Mangmang means vast. Yin De huai he means singing of his De and containing the Qi of harmony.

(Fuxi ruled the world by the De of Wood and was titled Taihao; meimei is pure and thick; mangmang is vast; he sang of his De and embraced its harmonious Qi, not yet greatly proclaiming it.) His influence was applied widely and intensely. (Bei is read as in “light covering the four quarters”; his De’s blessings were applied intensely and widely to the people.) Then knowledge began to be dim and flickering; all wished to leave their childlike ignorance (meimei: wishing to be bright but not yet bright; linlin: the appearance of wishing to know; li means to depart) and to awaken and look upon heaven and earth. Therefore his De became complicated and could not be unified. (Fan means many; yi means unified.) Bei shi po lie: De’s blessings shined and were applied intensely to the people. Tongmeng: childlike innocence and ignorance, a metaphor for pure simplicity not yet opened. Jue shi: awakening and looking, a metaphor for people beginning to discriminate and seek knowledge. De fan er bu neng yi: De was many and not unified.

Then came Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, who split and judged the great ancestral principle, opened and governed heaven and earth, followed the nine apertures, and doubled the nine layers. (Qiao means to penetrate; ling means to govern; xi means to follow; kuan…) Poupan dazong: to divide and distinguish the great ancestral principle. Qiaoling tiandi: to penetrate and govern heaven and earth. Xi jiu kuan: xi means to follow; the nine kuan are the nine apertures of the human body, a metaphor for following the aperture-principles of heaven, earth, and humanity. Chong jiu layers: chong means to layer; the nine layers are the nine fields or nine heavens, a metaphor for the structure of heaven and earth being further divided and layered.

Overall meaning: from the sage lifting heaven and earth and discarding the myriad things, breathing Yin-Yang and becoming chaotic one with all things, to having Yi’s wisdom but not using it; then to Fuxi, whose De and harmony were not yet greatly proclaimed, when people wished to leave childlike ignorance and look upon heaven and earth, so his De was complicated and not unified; and then to Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, who split the great ancestral principle, opened and governed heaven and earth, followed the nine apertures, and doubled the nine layers—this describes the process by which the world went from pure natural simplicity, through Fuxi when human knowledge gradually opened, to Shennong and the Yellow Emperor when ritual, law, and distinctions among heaven, earth, and humanity became ever clearer and pure simplicity ever more scattered.

This passage addresses why the world gradually loses its genuine nature. Between heaven and earth the myriad things are many, and each kind of living being has its own guiding threads and order. The common people all keep their eyes and ears fixed on their own positions, yet this does not bring them to harmony and accord. By the time of the Xia sovereigns (the rulers of the Xia dynasty), and even by the age of Kunwu (a feudal polity of the Xia, here referring to the age of lost Way at the dynasty's end), people's appetites and desires were bound up with external things, and their cleverness and wisdom were seduced by the outside world. In this way they lost the foundation of their natural endowment and of their life.

When the Zhou dynasty declined, its simple and unadorned customs gradually dissipated, and all kinds of miscellaneous doctrines spread. People acted through artful pretense, appearing frugal and virtuous on the surface while in fact taking glib words and deceitful tricks as their skill. With the decline of the Zhou house and the abandonment of the kingly Way, the Confucians and the Mohists (the school founded by Mo Di) each set up their own camps, disputed right and wrong, and brought accusations against one another. Some people used their erudition to question the sages (referring to earlier worthies such as Confucius), deceiving and coercing the multitude with ornate speech. Others accompanied song and dance and embellished the phrases of the Odes and the Documents in order to win fame throughout the realm.

They further adorned the elaborate ceremonies of ascending and descending, and they painted the ceremonial robes and crowns in ever more dazzling detail. The masses who gathered could not satisfy their changing demands, and the wealth they accumulated could not supply their extravagant expenditure. Thus the ten thousand people all rose up to compete, each wishing to display his own cleverness and deception, seeking a place in the world that matched his own designs, and single-mindedly pursuing fame and profit.

Consequently, the common people drift aimlessly along the edges of licentious indulgence and reckless excess, losing the root of the great foundation and the great ancestor. The reason the world has lost the root of life is that it arose through a gradual process of decline, and its origins are very distant indeed.

The "Huainan Honglie Jie" passage explores the different levels of scholarly pursuit and the relationship between human nature and desire.

The learning of truly enlightened individuals aims to return people to their original pure nature, allowing the mind to wander in the realm of emptiness (citing Mencius' view that human nature is inherently good but obscured by desires, hence sages can restore people to their primal state). In contrast, worldly learning does the opposite: it forcibly elevates virtue (De) and constrains nature, internally distressing the five organs and externally exhausting the senses (as it violates natural laws, causing excessive contemplation and sensory indulgence). Such people zealously promote benevolence, righteousness, rituals, and music while flaunting clever strategies, all to chase empty fame—these are precisely what sages disdain.

The author argues: Rather than possessing the world, it's better to attain inner joy; rather than pursuing pleasure, it's superior to wander freely through the beginning and end of all things, comprehending the profound mysteries of "being" (you) and "non-being" (wu). Thus one can remain unswayed by universal praise or blame, transcending life, death, honor, and disgrace. Even if the world were consumed by fire or flood, such a person's inner clarity would remain undisturbed. Those who reach this state perceive all worldly things as floating feathers and drifting straw—how could they exhaust themselves chasing external matters?

The text uses water's nature as a metaphor for human nature: water is naturally clear but muddied by sediment; human nature should be tranquil but disturbed by cravings. All humans inherently possess sensory desires, yet some attain spiritual clarity while others descend into madness—the difference lies in whether one's spirit (Shen) governs these desires. The spirit is the wellspring of wisdom: when the source is clear, wisdom shines bright; wisdom is the treasury of the mind: when wisdom is impartial, the heart remains peaceful. Just as no one uses muddy froth for a mirror but chooses still, clear water for reflection (symbolizing how self-cultivation requires maintaining inner clarity).

Huainan Honglie Jie: A Vernacular Interpretation

When things are in a state of quietude, it is like rainwater foaming in standing water and covering over a tile vessel—the water is murky and the waves turbid, and a person’s bodily form cannot be seen clearly. If one wishes to see a reflection in raw iron, it is better to look in a bright mirror, because the mirror’s surface is level and easy to reflect (the character yi can also be read as the yi of Yi County in Hejian, taking the sense of smooth and clear). Only what is level, simple, and still can reveal the nature of the ten thousand things (here xing means to manifest, to take visible form). From this one can know that wherever there is function, it often depends on an aspect that appears to be “non-use.” Hence the ancients said, “The empty chamber generates whiteness; auspiciousness comes to rest”—when the mind is empty like a clean room, the image of the Dao (the Way) can give rise to clarity; when the chamber of the body is empty, the desireless Dao can arise, and auspiciousness naturally takes its stand (here “chamber” refers to the chamber of body and mind, and “whiteness” to the clarity of the Dao).

When a mirror is bright, dust and dirt cannot obscure it; when the spirit is clear, cravings and desires cannot disturb it (this means the spirit guards within, and the passions cannot stir the mind). If one lets the spirit scatter outward without restraint and then forcibly pulls it back afterward, this is to abandon the root and chase the branches: inner and outer no longer match, and yet one wishes to engage with external things; one damages the inner mysterious light and relies only on the ears and eyes to seek knowledge outside (“mysterious light” refers to inner clarity; one interpretation says it is the light of Xuantian, Mysterious Heaven). This is to throw away one’s original brightness and instead pursue the gloom; this is called losing the Dao. When the mind has something it grasps, the spirit becomes unsettled and sighs; once one returns to emptiness, passions melt away and distracting thoughts are extinguished—only this is the state in which the sage lets the mind roam in the Dao (“returning to emptiness” means returning to empty stillness; the deluded nature perishes of itself, and so it is called the sage’s roaming).

In ancient times, those who governed the world first had to comprehend the true conditions of nature and life. Their concrete measures were not necessarily the same, but their accord with the Dao was one. Not wearing a fur robe in summer is not out of affection for the fur; it is because the body’s residual heat is already sufficient. Not using a fan in winter is not out of contempt for the fan; it is because coolness is already sufficient (shan is a fan, pronounced close to sha). The sage eats according to his belly and clothes himself according to his bodily form, seeking only to suit his own measure; whence could a greedy mind arise? Therefore, one who can possess all under Heaven must not take all under Heaven as private property; one who can possess fame and reputation must not scramble competitively after the pursuits of merit and fame (here yi is explained as “use”: not using all under Heaven, fame, and position to enslave oneself).

When one penetrates the Great Dao (the Way), the mind that clings greedily to ordinary desires disperses. The disciples of Confucius and Mozi all tried to instruct the world through the arts of benevolence and righteousness, yet they themselves could not avoid hardship and destitution—how then could they truly transform others? (“Lei shen” means hardship and destitution, with the body left unused; “lei” is pronounced close to the word for thunder.) Why is this? Because their methods of the Dao were confined to external forms. To seek the root by means of branches and minor details—even Xu You (an ancient recluse famed for his indifference to fame and profit) would find it difficult, let alone ordinary commoners. (“Qi min” means ordinary people equal with the common folk.) If one truly penetrates the truth of nature and life, benevolence and righteousness will naturally attach to the heart; how could advancing and retreating, taking and leaving, disturb the original mind?

As for those whose heart-spirit has nothing covering it and whose heart-mind has no burden, who penetrate without obstruction and are tranquil in Wuwei (non-action), they are not stalled by external things. They await the affairs of the world with an empty and still mind: power and profit cannot entice them (“you” means to confuse or entice), sophists cannot persuade them (“shuo” means to explain), sounds and colors cannot bewilder them, beauty cannot make them overstep their proper bounds (“lan” means to covet, or is written “jian,” meaning it cannot make them excessive), the wise cannot shake them, and the brave cannot intimidate them (“kong” means to intimidate). This is the realm of the True Person. Such a person can mold and transform the myriad things and, together with the Creator, govern heaven and earth (“wei ren” here means to govern); between heaven and earth and within the four quarters, no one can obstruct them (“jian” means between above and below; “nei” means within the four quarters). That which gives birth through transformation (Heaven) does not die; that which transforms things (De, Virtue/Power) is not transformed. Their spirit can pass through Mount Li and the Taihang Mountains without being obstructed (Mount Li is south of Xinfeng County in present-day Shaanxi; the Taihang Mountains are north of Yewang County in present-day Henan), can dive into the Four Seas and Nine Rivers without getting wet (the Four Seas are the seas of the four directions; the Nine Rivers are the Yangtze divided into nine branches), can dwell in a narrow, small place without being blocked in, and can stretch across heaven and earth without being cramped (“jiong” means closed or shut). Those who do not penetrate this Dao, even if they can see with their eyes a flock of a thousand sheep and distinguish the harmonies of the eight winds (“mu” means to look, “er” means to hear; the eight winds are the winds of the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), and “tiao” means harmony), can step-dance to the tune of Yang’e and move their hands in time with the rhythm of Green Water (Yang’e was a famous ancient singer; Green Water is the name of a dance tune, and some say it is the title of an ancient poem; “qu” means to match the rhythm), and can exhaust heaven and earth with their wisdom and discern the tip of an autumn hair—yet they are merely counting a flock of sheep with their eyes and hearing the sound of the wind with their ears.

The alternation of sun and moon and the carving of jade are of no use in governing the world. Clarity, stillness, plainness, and detachment are used to nourish one’s original nature; harmony, joy, emptiness, and nonbeing are used to nourish one’s De. When externally one is not enticed, inwardly one’s nature attains what is fitting; when nature is unmoved and harmonious, De rests securely in its place. To nourish life in order to order the world and to embrace De until the end of one’s years—this may be called being able to embody the Dao. In this way, the blood vessels have no stagnation, the five viscera have no blocked Qi, calamity and fortune cannot disturb one, and defamation and praise cannot sully one; thus one can reach the utmost. If there were no such era, who could accomplish it? If such a person does not meet the time, he cannot even free himself, let alone when the Dao is absent.

Moreover, it is the common disposition of human beings that the ears and eyes respond to stimuli and stir the mind, which knows sorrow and joy; the hands and feet avoid harm and fend off cold and heat—this is how they engage with things. When a bee or scorpion stings a finger, the Shen cannot become settled; when mosquitoes and gadflies bite the skin, consciousness cannot become calm. When anxieties and troubles come to disturb the human heart—more than the poison of a bee or scorpion’s sting or the sharp pain of a mosquito or gadfly’s bite—and yet one wishes to be clear, still, empty, and nonbeing, what can be done? When the eye examines the tip of an autumn hair, the ear does not hear the sound of thunder; when the ear is attuned to the sound of jade and stone, the eye does not see the height of Mount Tai. Why is this? Because when one is intent on the small, one forgets the great. Now when the myriad things come, pulling up my nature and seizing my feelings like a spring source, even if I wish not to engage them, how could I? Now consider planting trees: one irrigates them with flowing water and fertilizes them with rich soil; if one person nurtures them and ten people pull them up, there will certainly be no remaining shoots—how much more when one joins with an entire state to cut them down! Even if one wishes for long life, how could it be obtained? Now a basin of water in the courtyard, clarified for a whole day, still cannot show one’s eyebrows and eyelashes; muddied by no more than a single stir, it cannot distinguish square from round. The human Shen is easily muddied and hard to clarify, just like the basin of water; how much more when a whole generation stirs and muddies it—how could it be calm for even a moment? In ancient times, the ultimate...

Vernacular Interpretation

In an age when De (Virtue) was abundant, merchants felt at ease managing their shops, farmers gladly attended to their proper work, grand officers were content in their posts, and recluses cultivated the Dao (the Way) of the former kings. In that time, wind and rain did not injure the myriad things, plants and trees did not wither or die young, the Nine Tripods were heavy and substantial, the flavors were rich and mellow, and pearls and jade were moist and lustrous. (The Nine Tripods were cast from the tribute metal of the Nine Provinces; one account says they symbolized the nine virtues, hence “Nine Tripods”; “heavy” means substantial and thick, and “moist and lustrous” means possessing luster.) From the Luo River came the Red Writing, and from the Yellow River the Green Diagram; thus Xu You, Fang Hui, Shan Juan, Pi Yi, and others were able to comprehend their Way. (Xu You was a man of Yangcheng; Yao once invited him to office, but he was unwilling to accept wealth and rank. Fang Hui, Shan Juan, and Pi Yi were all recluses in Yao’s time, and their names can no longer be verified; Fang Hui may have been so named because he was upright and circumspect, and Pi Yi because he often went about with a cloak draped over him; all of them were able to rest content in the Way of the former kings that they cultivated.) Why was this? Because the rulers of that age had a mind to benefit the world, the common people could enjoy themselves between Heaven and Earth and each find peace in their own Way. (One reading has “making literary virtue and enjoying themselves therein,” meaning finding joy in the Way of the former kings.) These four were not perfect in talent, yet in their era no one could share their high reputation—that was the time of Tang Yao and Yu Shun. (“Light” refers to reputation and luster.)

When it came to Jie of Xia and Zhou of Yin, they burned people alive and slaughtered them, subjected those who remonstrated to the paolao torture—or cast metal pillars, lit fierce fires beneath them, and placed people atop the pillars; when they fell into the fire, he laughed at them—cut open the heart of the worthy Bi Gan, and dissected the shins of talented men to see whether they were different. (Bi Gan was a worthy man; “dissect” means to cut open or split apart.) He minced the daughter of Marquis Gui into meat paste and pickled Mei Bo’s remains. (Marquis Gui and Mei Bo were feudal lords in Zhou’s time; one account says Zhou thought the daughter of Marquis Gui was not beautiful, so he killed her and minced her into meat paste, and that Mei Bo repeatedly remonstrated with Zhou and was chopped into minced meat.) At that time Mount Yao collapsed, and the three rivers Jing, Wei, and Qian dried up. (Mount Yao is in the region of Nanyang; the drying up of rivers is an omen of a state’s downfall.) Flying birds broke their wings, and running beasts broke their legs.

Vernacular Interpretation of Huainan Honglie Jie

Wild beasts were driven and trampled until their feet were injured—this speaks of King Zhou’s limitless hunting: birds broke their wings and beasts injured their feet, and almost none escaped. In such an age, were there no sages? There were. It is only that those who understand the Great Dao and put it into practice do not meet an age in which they can unfold it (commentary: a sage cannot practice his Dao alone, just as an enemy cannot meet a world in which to match strength).

Birds fly a thousand ren high, and beasts hide in deep grass, yet disaster can still fall upon them; how much more so for registered commoners and ordinary people? (Cong means a cluster of trees; bo means deep grass. Here it still refers to hunting out of season and disturbing the myriad things.) From this we see that a person who embodies the Dao is not wholly determined by how brilliant he himself is; he is also tightly bound to the age in which he lives.

The capital of Liyang was overturned in a single night and became a great lake; the brave and strong, the sage and wise, and the cowardly and unworthy all perished together. (Liyang was a county under the Huainan kingdom, in the area of present-day Jiangdu. Legend has it that an old woman constantly practiced benevolence and righteousness. Two scholars passed by and said that this place was about to sink and become a lake; they told her to watch the threshold of the east gate, and if there was blood, to flee to the northern mountain without looking back. The old woman went to look. To test her, the gate officer killed a chicken and smeared blood on the threshold. The next day, when the old woman saw the blood, she went up the northern mountain, and the city indeed became a lake overnight—only one night apart from what the gate officer had said. The brave and the cowardly shared the same fate; no one could escape.)

On Mount Wu, a fire was set with the wind, and the gaoxia tree—a great tree whose grain is dense and white like fat—the purple zhi, and the xiao and ai grasses—lowly plants, a metaphor for unworthy people—burned to death together. The worthy and wise, like the zhi and the tree, and the mediocre and inferior, like the xiao and ai, were not distinguished in the same fire.

Fish in the river cannot open their eyes, and young crops cannot ripen on time, because the environment in which they are born is simply that way. (River water is muddy, so fish find it hard to keep their eyes clear; killing frost arrives early, so crops cannot wait for the time of natural ripening—when the “time” and “conditions” of one’s birth are not right, even the finest endowment cannot unfold.)

Thus, when the world is well governed, a fool cannot by himself throw the world into disorder; when the world is in chaos, a wise man cannot by himself bring the world to order. To be in a turbid age and yet blame the Great Dao for not being practiced in oneself is like binding a qilin’s two legs together and still demanding that it run a thousand li; or shutting an ape in a pigpen, where it is as wretched as a pig—not because the ape is not nimble, but because the cage and the age do not accommodate it.

Closing Summary: This passage uses metaphors such as King Zhou’s excessive hunting, the sinking of Liyang into a lake, the burning of the forest on Mount Wu, the muddy river injuring fish, and frost killing young crops to explain that whether a sage or a person who embodies the Dao can appear and be employed depends not only on personal cultivation, but even more on whether the age is in accord with him. To insist, in a chaotic age out of joint with the times, that “the Dao must be practiced in me” is the same as binding the qilin and imprisoning the ape among pigs: it is to blame the circumstances without recognizing the conditions.

Clever and agile people have nowhere to display their abilities in ordinary circumstances. When Shun farmed and made pottery, he could not bring much benefit to a single village or neighborhood; but once he faced south and became king, his benevolent virtue could extend throughout the world. This was not because his benevolent virtue suddenly became stronger, but simply because his position was convenient and the circumstances were favorable.

The sages of antiquity were by nature peaceful and joyful, quiet and composed; their aspiration lay in attaining the Dao and carrying out the Heavenly Mandate. Thus, when their nature met the Heavenly Mandate, they could put the Mandate into practice; and when the Heavenly Mandate was assisted by their nature, they could understand things clearly.

The Niaohao bow, made of mulberry wood, and the crossbow made in the state of Xizi cannot shoot without a string; the small boats of Yue and the little craft of Shu cannot float without water. Now, with the arrow mechanism above and nets spread below, even if a bird wished to soar high and wheel about, how could circumstances allow it?

Therefore the “Juan Er” poem in the “Zhou Nan” section of the Classic of Poetry says: “I gather the Juan Er herb, but it does not fill my shallow basket; I long for that person and place him beside the great road.” This expresses admiration for the worthy rulers of distant ages. The Juan Er herb is easy to gather, yet it cannot fill a basket that is easy to fill—just as when a noble person governs the state, if the mind is not single-minded and the effort is not focused, the great Dao cannot be achieved. An easily gathered vegetable cannot fill an easily filled vessel. “I long for that person and place him beside the great road”—this means longing for the noble persons of antiquity, who appointed worthy people and placed them in the ranks of office. The worthy people of antiquity each found their proper place and each occupied their proper position; hence the saying that one admires distant ages.