《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 1

This passage depicts the lifestyle and spiritual realm of the reclusive noble scholar "Master Huai Bing," along with his dialogue with a worldly interlocutor.

Master Huai Bing disdains worldly fame and fortune, content to till barren soil with his own hands. Though possessing extraordinary skills, he keeps them concealed ("secretly encompassing the Six Marvels"), like precious jade that shines inwardly without outward display. Far from the vermilion gates of the wealthy, he maintains inner tranquility in a humble thatched hut, severing ties with powerful nobles (the "Jin and Zhang" refer to the Han Dynasty elites Jin Midi and Zhang Anshi) while cultivating vast righteous Qi in seclusion. He considers glory and splendor misfortunes, viewing rare jewels and silken fabrics as mere weeds and dirt.

His transcendent existence resembles dwelling at the rainbow's edge ("the tip of the rainbow"), his thoughts as ethereal as the borders of an inverted fairyland ("neighbor to inverted reflections"). External disturbances cannot break his inner peace, nor can worldly temptations disrupt his spirit.

At this point, an ambitious "Opportunity-Seeking Gentleman" arrives to persuade him: "When fine steeds remain buried in valleys, it shames the horse connoisseur Bo Le (Sun Yang). When a great era overlooks exceptional talent, it indicts those who should recognize worth. How can we allow virtuous men to cultivate themselves alone, leaving the court bereft of pillars like the ancient Eight Virtuous Ones and Eight Accomplished Ones?"

The gentleman continues with ornate rhetoric: "Even if one possesses talent yet remains unused by the world, it's like displaying dragon-embroidered robes in darkness, burying flawless jade in abysses, hibernating in midsummer, or hiding blossoms when spring arrives. Though one might exhaust brush and ink elucidating the Supreme Ultimate's mysteries ('mystically explicating the Taiji'), if words cannot influence reality, it's like laughing at wooden puppets or weeping before clay statues. Light as goose down sinks in the Weak Waters, while heavy as jade floats in torrents. Only through worldly engagement can one harmonize all differences ('uniting the myriad particulars'). In sternness, one could make spring feel like autumn frost; in gentleness, make icicles burst into bloom. For such abilities to remain unemployed would be as regrettable as mountains collapsing or abysses heaving upward."

Through this contrast of two life philosophies, the dialogue reveals the conflict between the Daoist recluse's transcendent spiritual pursuit and worldly values of achievement. The text employs abundant metaphors and hyperbole—images like "the tip of the rainbow" and "neighbor to inverted reflections"—vividly portraying the hermit's spiritual realm.

This passage expounds on the principle that virtuous individuals should actively engage with the world and establish meritorious deeds. Using the metaphor of the Yellow River's turbid waters that naturally clarify themselves, the author illustrates how those with De (Virtue) should not merely cultivate personal purity but emulate ancient sages in benefiting society.

The truly wise understand that heaven and earth operate according to their patterns, and the relationship between ruler and minister is a vital human bond. Ancient sages like Confucius grew anxious after three months without serving a lord, lamenting that contemporary rulers failed to match the virtue of Yao and Shun, leaving the people without universal prosperity. Thus, worthy individuals actively seek opportunities—just as Yi Yin carried his cauldron to seek an audience with Tang of Shang, or Ning Qi struck a cow's horn and sang to gain Duke Huan of Qi's attention. They do not wait passively for enlightened rulers like King Wen of Zhou to appear but discern the times, advancing when appropriate and withdrawing when necessary. They preserve themselves wisely while transforming the people, much as orchid fragrance bends trees and clear water washes away filth.

History shows that the towering achievements of Emperor Yao, Shun's reverent governance, King Wen's dominion over two-thirds of the realm, King Wu's revolutionary success, Duke Huan and Duke Wen's restoration of the Zhou dynasty, and Emperor Gaozu of Han's alignment with heaven's mandate all stemmed from employing the worthy. If sages had all imitated Xu You—who washed his ears to reject office—or recluses like Chang Ju and Jie Ni who tilled fields in seclusion, ancient teachings would never have been established, sagely golden ages would not have manifested, and the praises of virtuous rulers and ministers would go unsung. The laws governing the world would remain unfulfilled.

Thus, true talent lies in adaptability, and heroes prove their worth by quelling chaos. When clouds obscure the sun, its light vanishes; when a tiger sheathes its claws, it seems to hold mere fruit; when a sword's edge is hidden, its sharpness goes unseen; when a steed does not run, its speed remains unknown. If all remain silent, even the eloquent Zigong would be no different from a mute; if all close their eyes, even the sharp-sighted Li Zhu would appear blind.

Finally, the author criticizes those who prioritize personal purity over ethical duty, content with private gains while neglecting loyalty to ruler and country. Such individuals leave no legacy in life and earn no posthumous renown. Even commoners would scorn them—how much more should true worthies? Just as a taut string straightens wood and upright Qi dispels malign forces, moral clarity naturally overcomes corruption.

This passage presents two contrasting approaches to life.

The first perspective advocates active engagement with worldly affairs: just as Emperor Shun exiled the Four Malevolents (legendary villains banished by Shun) and Confucius executed Shaozheng Mao (a corrupt official of Lu State during the Spring and Autumn period), the world sometimes requires stern measures to maintain order. Without treating severe illnesses, a divine physician's skill would remain unrecognized; without experiencing chaotic times, extraordinary vision would go unnoticed. Standing idly by while others drown demonstrates no true benevolence (De), and possessing Daoist arts yet refusing to serve one's country contradicts the path of sages. Through a series of analogies, the author argues that prosperous eras require capable ministers, yet some now seek to withdraw after achieving success.

The text then introduces "Master Embracing-Ice" to articulate the Daoist philosophy of reclusion. This transcendent figure, whose spirit roams the celestial realms, responds: The perfected person (zhiren) embodies serenity and wuwei (non-action), merging consciousness with the void, thus remaining unharmed by misfortune. By avoiding treacherous paths, they never stumble. Content with wild herbs as sustenance and at ease among common folk, they emulate ancient recluses like Yiliao and Duan Gammu who dwelt in seclusion, befriending sages such as Zhuangzi and Lao Laizi. Though residing in humble alleys, their resolve stands firm as mountains. True nobility lies not in official titles, nor wealth in material possessions. Like the giant Peng bird soaring beyond mortal concerns, they wouldn't pause for carrion; taking Yan Hui's joyful poverty as their model, they remain unshaken in happiness. Human life passes swiftly as sunlight through a crack—why exhaust oneself over external matters? Even birds and beasts know to evade danger—how much more should humans?

The conclusion contrasts four historical tragedies—Yao Li destroying his family for merit, Ji Xin dying in his lord's stead, Chen Jia committing suicide for his brother, and Zilu perishing for righteousness—implying such sacrifices for reputation are ultimately unworthy of emulation.

This passage employs historical allusions and metaphors to reveal the perils of pursuing fame and fortune. It cites examples like Nie Zheng and Jing Ke who sacrificed their lives to repay debts of gratitude or demonstrate loyalty, pointing out that such seemingly heroic acts are actually "the delusions of lesser fools" rather than the conduct of wise men.

The author argues that high positions and generous salaries often come with great responsibilities and mental burdens. Thus ancient sages like Zhuangzi (referred to as the "Lacquer Garden philosopher") preferred fishing to serving as prime minister, and Bo Chengzi Gao chose farming over accepting a feudal lord's title. Those who covet wealth and status are likened to: waiting for summer while standing on thin ice, expecting strong winds while perched on dead branches, deep-water fish greedily swallowing baited hooks, marsh pheasants consuming poisoned grains, eating rotten meat to satisfy hunger, or drinking poisoned wine to quench thirst—all acts of self-destruction.

The text references how Jizi foresaw the fall of the Shang dynasty upon seeing ivory chopsticks, and how Confucius lamented the corruption of rites upon hearing about funerary figurines, illustrating how the wise discern great truths from small signs. Yet foolish men persist in their delusions, like King Cheng of Zhou who nearly committed a grave mistake by doubting the Duke of Zhou due to slander, had it not been for the evidence in the Golden Coffer. The author sighs: repeated slander eventually gains credence ("three repetitions make a market tiger real"), as seen in tragedies like Jiang Chong's false accusation against the crown prince or stepmothers sowing discord between fathers and sons.

The passage concludes with the tragic fates of Wu Zixu who died for his loyalty and Bai Qi who perished upholding righteousness, implying that even the most virtuous cannot escape misfortune in turbulent times. Through numerous historical examples, the entire text admonishes readers against being blinded by worldly success, urging instead the wisdom of self-preservation.

This passage is from the Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi Waipian), discussing the principle of being content with one's lot and maintaining virtue in daily life.

Those who rashly take their own lives truly chill the hearts of discerning observers, much like an unskilled craftsman who only confuses himself. Some constantly seek to elevate themselves by belittling others, judging right and wrong based solely on their own narrow views—yet they fail to realize: though gold can cut wood, an awl cannot fell the legendary Deng Forest; though water can extinguish fire, a mere cupful cannot quench a burning mountain; a dab of glue cannot purify the muddy Yellow River, nor can a shallow pool of water cool the heat of a volcano. Thus, few are those who preserve both reputation and life, while many are those who first prosper only to later suffer calamity.

People fear misfortune yet crave vanity; they detest disgrace yet indulge in contention. This is as absurd as hating dampness yet plunging into a deep pool, despising one’s shadow yet refusing to step into the shade, drilling holes in a boat to stop leaks, or piling on firewood to put out flames. Our seven-foot bodies are given by our parents—we must not let them be maimed. Our hearts, though small, must be governed by ourselves—we must not let them run wild. Tilling the land for food, digging wells for water, clothing ourselves in coarse cloth, sheltering in thatched huts, amusing ourselves with music and song, prolonging life through breath cultivation, wandering freely among books, expressing our thoughts through brush and ink, and abiding by our true nature until the end—this is more than enough.

Those of high virtue (De) naturally command respect—why must they chase power to flaunt their status or wait for official salaries to fill their bellies? The contented poor consider lack of wealth as riches; those who embrace humility regard freedom from high office as honor. Thus, Guan Ning (styled You’an) crossed the sea to live in seclusion and nurture his spirit (Shen), while Hu Zhao willingly retreated to till the fields. Though Guan Longfeng and Bi Gan possessed virtue, they met with suffering; though Han Xin and Ying Bu achieved great merit, they were executed. A single branch suffices for a phoenix to perch—why must it claim the whole forest? A small puddle allows a dragon’s scales to glide—why must it seek the vast ocean?

Wild herbs are more delicious than delicacies from land and sea; clear springs are sweeter than fine wine. Straw sandals are more comfortable than red boots, and plain robes more splendid than official garb. Holding a wooden staff brings more peace than wielding a scepter; the rustling of leaves sounds more melodious than strings and pipes. A thatched hut is brighter than vermilion pillars, and unhewn rafters more precious than carved eaves. Take towering peaks as your terrace, rocky caves as your grand hall, accumulate writings as your granary, and treasure profound discourse as gold and jade. Cast aside the desires of the vulgar, relinquish the pursuits of the mediocre. Roam freely like a crane crying over the marshlands; discard cunning and transcend the mundane. Bend and stretch like an inchworm, conceal your brilliance and preserve simplicity. Appear clumsy, speak sparingly, and understand the contentment of sufficiency—only then can you peacefully partake of the numinous herbs of immortality.

This passage depicts two contrasting approaches to life: one pursuing fame and official rank, the other embracing reclusive withdrawal. Through a dialogic format, the author presents a juxtaposition of these life choices.

The "fragrant winds and soaring clouds" section portrays the unfettered existence of hermits, likening them to phoenixes perched upon wutong trees, gazing down upon the mystical isles of immortals. Compared to horses constrained by bridles or sacrificial oxen adorned with ornate trappings, the recluse's life appears far more transcendent and liberated.

The "opportunistic gentleman" represents those seeking official careers, advocating for adapting to circumstances: assuming public office when appropriate, withdrawing when necessary. During times of enlightened governance, exemplary persons (junzi) may realize their aspirations; yet in chaotic eras, they should retreat like hidden dragons and concealed phoenixes—this embodies the ancient wisdom of situational response.

In contrast, the "ice-hearted scholar" steadfastly maintains his commitment to reclusion. He argues that even during the sage-ruled eras of Yao and Shun, there existed hermits like Chao Fu and Xu You. Each person follows their own aspirations, as the Yijing (Book of Changes) states: "The noble person may decline service to kings and lords." Acknowledging his limited capacity for statecraft and observing the current court's abundance of talent and enlightened governance, he prefers wandering freely among mountain forests.

This dialogue reflects the Daoist philosophy of "following the natural flow" (shunshi erwei), while also revealing ancient intellectuals' diverse perspectives on the dilemma of public service versus withdrawal. Through this dialectic, the author expresses respect for individual choice and affirms the value of reclusive living.

Here are several metaphors illustrating ill-timed actions: striking an earthen pot beside a great bell, waving a fan before solid ice, or flaunting fur coats and stoves in midsummer—such behaviors would be dismissed as useless and invite ridicule. Forcing oneself to attempt what lies beyond one's capacity only leads to failure and regret, much like a little fox crossing a river and soaking its tail in comical distress.

The wise approach is therefore to compensate for shortcomings by developing one's strengths. Though I lack meritorious deeds in court or military exploits on the battlefield, through teaching disciples, propagating the true Dao (the Way), and nurturing vital Qi (energy), different paths ultimately converge toward the same goal—this is by no means futile. Those with limited abilities should maintain their integrity; why must they rival sages like Xu You (the legendary recluse)? In prosperous eras, tolerance prevails—is it not admirable to embrace diverse choices as in the golden age of Emperor Yao?

Hearing this, the initially aggressive nobleman suddenly changed countenance. With newfound reverence, he conceded: "Through establishing teachings and writing to censure corruption, advocating serenity to restrain frivolity, and reviving Confucianism to restore the waning Way of sages—if not for those who rectify moral standards, who would guide bewildered students? All under heaven are subjects. Must only officials wearing caps and holding tablets be deemed correct, while recluses content in poverty be dismissed? Just as the lost in Yunmeng Marsh need a compass, and sailors on vast seas depend on the North Star—today I finally recognize my former bias through your instruction. Permit me to follow you, embracing all progressive thought without prejudice."