《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 20

Ge Hong (Baopuzi) was asked by his disciple: It is said that during the reigns of Emperors Ling and Xian in the late Eastern Han dynasty, the standards for evaluating talent became utterly confused. Truly capable people languished in poverty while the greedy and virtueless (De) prospered. Reputation no longer matched reality, like goods being traded without regard to their true value. People considered those skilled at political maneuvering as worthy, while viewing the upright and uncompromising as fools. What accounts for this phenomenon?

Ge Hong replied: There are those who cannot hear the roar of thunder nor see the movement of sun, moon and stars. Is this merely a defect of ears and eyes? The obscuration of the mind is far more serious than sensory impairment. Thus when people hear profound truths yet fail to comprehend, it's not for lack of ears; when they encounter exceptional talent yet fail to recognize it, it's not for lack of eyes. This occurs because their wisdom cannot reach the subtle realms, and their vision cannot discern true genius.

Those with expansive wisdom stand immovable like towering mountains, while the narrow-minded drift like duckweed on water. Mountainous character cannot be easily shaken, while duckweed nature is fated to wander. Using goods as metaphor: Truly precious treasures often prove difficult to sell, while common wares peddled with gongs and drums find quick buyers. Using trees as analogy: The giant trees rooted in sacred Songshan and Taiyue mountains remain unknown though their crowns reach a thousand ren high and their shade covers ten thousand acres, whereas crooked saplings planted by roadsides, though soon to wither, are immediately put to use. Thus ancestral temples often contain ritual vessels (hugui) made of withered poplar, while prime catalpa wood stands uncut in remote mountains.

Hence reputation-thieves rise like mole crickets and lizards soaring to the clouds, while the truly virtuous sink like azure dragons into the ninefold springs. The result? Sparrows ride the winds while phoenixes fold their wings in hiding. Lead blades are mistaken for the legendary Tai'e sword, while dogs and sheep don tiger skins to run rampant.

Those crafty sycophants use bribery as wings to reach any height, and factionalism as boats to travel any distance. Rising early and retiring late, they feign diligence; observing expressions and catering to moods, they flatter assiduously: Eloquence masquerades as genuine insight, hearsay poses as erudition, malice concealed by mild manners appears as benevolence (Ren), filthy deeds accompanied by lofty words seem like integrity, delight in exposing faults passes for loyalty, and reckless speech pretends to be forthrightness. For these reasons, they often achieve meteoric success.

This passage discusses a universal phenomenon in talent selection and interpersonal relations:

Truly virtuous and capable individuals are rare, while mediocre people abound. The majority form cliques to cover each other's flaws, leaving the few virtuous ones isolated and unsupported. Petty men help each other to obstruct the righteous path, while the truly talented are relegated to low positions and denied recognition. Just as Confucius (Zhongni) was marginalized by Zi Xi, the prime minister of Chu, and Mencius (Meng Ke) was slandered by Zang Cang, such misfortunes of virtuous men being trapped have existed since ancient times.

The author employs contrasting imagery: inferior horses (nujian) adorned with exquisite bridles while thousand-mile steeds (rongji) are left grazing in the mountains; incompetent people occupying high positions (shilu, literally "corpse salaries") leading to national decline. Many tragic endings of loyal ministers throughout history resulted from improper selection and the failure to employ true talent.

A truly wise ruler actively seeks out virtuous talents, breaking conventions to promote them: they may be found among butchers and fishermen, elevated from the ranks of soldiers, or even discovered among prisoners to become capable ministers of state. Only thus can achievements be made and territories expanded.

Yet reality often shows: the upright are ostracized, the incorruptible hated by the treacherous. If the ruler lacks discernment, they must rely on powerful ministers' recommendations, who typically promote their own faction members. They slander those they fear (the upright) and promote those they favor (their associates). Employing upright people can dismantle treacherous factions, while partiality in appointments weakens the ruler's authority. Treacherous factions fear their exposure isn't vicious enough—even subjecting the virtuous to cruel punishments (yueyi: foot amputation and nose cutting) doesn't satisfy them, stopping at nothing until their targets are destroyed.

(Note: "Zhongni" was Confucius's courtesy name; "Meng Ke" refers to Mencius; "yueyi" were ancient cruel punishments; "shilu" means holding a position without performing duties; "butchers and fishermen" metaphorically represent humble occupations)

This passage expounds on the noble character that Dao cultivators should uphold. The essence is this: genuine practitioners of the Dao never compromise their principles even in adversity, preferring to maintain purity unto death rather than submit to worldly conventions. Like towering mountains and vast oceans, they remain unfathomable and transcend mundane concerns.

Specifically, Dao cultivators focus on inner refinement rather than external wealth or poverty. They would rather endure hunger in humble alleyways than forsake their moral integrity; they prefer coarse hemp garments to ill-gotten riches. They neither bow to power to curry favor nor alter their aspirations for material gain.

Such individuals may appear ordinary, yet harbor profound aspirations within. Steady as sacred Mount Song and Mount Tai, expansive as the great sea—their worth cannot be measured by worldly standards. They view fame-seekers as insignificant as blades of grass. Their spiritual realm soars beyond the dust of the world; neither poverty nor threats can intimidate them, nor can danger or temptation sway them.

Their learning can be heard yet remains difficult to fully comprehend; their virtue can be witnessed yet defies simple judgment. In essence, true Dao cultivators maintain unwavering independence of character and sublime moral conduct, remaining unmoved by external things.

Those who criticize you all look askance with one voice, while your supporters are too few to help. It's like trying to stem the Yellow River's breach with a handful of earth, or quenching a wildfire with a single gourd of water. Thus the great drum silences its thunderous roar, while petty drums (táo pí) blare shrilly; fragrant orchids are uprooted, yet stinking salted fish are worn as adornments; precious dark ale (xuān chàng) is poured out without shame, while vile brew is offered to heavenly spirits; the thousand-mile steed wanders with drooping ears, while lame donkeys pull splendid chariots—this is why the ancients would rather embrace stones and drown in rivers than wallow in such an age. How lamentable!

To cast black jade (xuān lí) into a fetid ditch is no fault of the night-shining pearl's worth, but of blind eyes. If vermilion bows and Lu arrows cannot be drawn, it's not that the mighty Fanruo lacks power, but that none appreciate it. Thus jade awaits a Bian He to reveal its city-worth value, the Wuhao bow needs a Pengmen to pierce armor, the flying Tu steed requires a Bo Le to gallop a thousand miles, and talent must meet enlightened rulers to fulfill its potential.

If precious jade remains buried in mountain depths, if mighty bows never test their strength against layered armor, if thousand-mile steeds never pull ornate chariots, if talents capable of ordering the age never hold high office—who would know they harbor radiant brilliance? How then could they soar like cloud-crossing swans, race like wind-chasing steeds, or manage myriad affairs like pillars of state? Even in obscurity, better this than mingling with tiles and stones, rotting timber, inferior horses, or mediocre men!

Alas! To shoot at high-flying birds with jujube-wood arrows, retrace King Mu's expeditions with exhausted nags, match Lu Ban and Mozi without an axe, or rectify human relations while neglecting worthies—is this not impossibly difficult? Though fame may be buried for a time, virtue endures. What worries remain for those content with heaven's will? To abide in the times and follow nature's course—why rail against heaven or blame others?