《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 32

Ge Hong (Baopuzi) states in the "Shangbo" chapter: Confucian classics resemble the vast ocean of Daoist principles, while the works of various philosophical schools are like rivers flowing into this sea. Looking upward, these writings shine like auspicious stars accompanying the sun and moon; gazing downward, they appear as lush forests complementing towering mountains. Though each school follows different paths, all ultimately help people cultivate virtue (De); though their methods vary, each serves an edifying purpose. Thus enlightened individuals always grasp the root to govern the branches, holding the guiding principles to comprehend diverse doctrines.

The ancients often lamented the rarity of true talent, believing a truly outstanding person emerges only once in a century. We shouldn't discard the luminous treasure of uncut jade just because it doesn't come from Mount Kunlun, nor should we deny the instructional value of a work simply because it wasn't authored by a sage. Like the simple folk songs circulating among commoners or the brief military oaths—though crude in language and short in length—they still get preserved and passed down, occupying a status just below the sacred classics. While the Hundred Schools of Thought each emphasize different aspects, their essential purpose of encouraging goodness remains identical, much like using different vessels to fight fires or applying various acupuncture techniques to cure illness—the ultimate goal stays the same.

Since the Han and Wei dynasties, various theories have grown even more abundant, with some ideas deeper than the abyss and literary brilliance more magnificent than ocean waves. Applying these doctrines can summon celestial auspicious signs, evoke terrestrial blessings, attract rare birds from distant lands, bring peace to the common people, eliminate immediate calamities, and leave lasting benefits for posterity. Unfortunately, contemporary times lack sages to evaluate these theories, preventing them from galloping freely like thousand-mile steeds, leaving us no choice but to arrange these modern theories after ancient canons.

Those with narrow minds confine themselves to shallow views, obsessing over trivial textual analysis while dismissing novel ideas as unimportant. Some claim the Hundred Schools' theories are minor paths unworthy of attention; others argue broad knowledge disrupts clear thinking. They fail to understand how accumulated droplets can outweigh mountains, or how small sums combined can reach astronomical figures. Just as multiple colors interweave to create splendid ceremonial robes, diverse musical tones blend to produce elegant compositions. Some favor superficial poetry while disparaging profound philosophical works rich in thought, mistaking penetrating insights for foolishness and ornate rhetoric for beauty—truly confusing truth with falsehood, jade with common stone. This resembles performing solemn court music in rural villages or embroidering dragon patterns on coarse cloth, evoking nothing but sighs of regret!

Others defend these authors by saying...

This dialogue discusses the relationship between De (Virtue/Power) and literary expression. Ge Hong (Baopuzi) argues that while De is undoubtedly important, the value of literary writing should not be underestimated.

Some contend that De is fundamental while writing is merely peripheral. They cite Confucius' ranking of disciples—placing virtuous exemplars like Yan Hui and Min Ziqian above literary talents like Ziyou and Zixia—as proof that writing is trivial and unworthy of high regard.

Ge Hong responds: The quality of De may be easily judged, but the subtleties of fine writing are far harder to discern. Precisely because De has clear evaluative standards (coarse), while literary appreciation requires refined perception (subtle), we should pay greater attention to these nuances. Just as one may discard the bamboo trap after catching fish but cannot fish without tools, so writing may be set aside—yet remains indispensable for conveying truth.

He illustrates with analogies: The difference between excellent and mediocre writing is as vast as the sharpness between the Dragon Abyss sword and a leaden blade, or the weight contrast between a swan's feather and gold ingots. Ordinary people see only the superficial skill of composing characters, failing to appreciate the artistry—like how the musician Boya stopped playing after losing his appreciative listener Zhong Ziqi, or how the master carpenter Shi could only demonstrate his axe technique when working for the discerning Ying craftsmen.

Ge Hong concludes: Writing and De are like ten chi versus one zhang—ultimately equal in importance. To claim writing is merely incidental is unprecedented. Just as heaven reveals its patterns through sun, moon and stars (垂象), and earth manifests its textures through mountains and rivers, writing too serves as a vital medium for expressing the Dao.

This passage discusses the comparative value of literary works across different eras. In ancient times, figures like the sage-kings Yao and Shun were described as "great men radiant as tiger stripes" (illustrious virtue shining like a tiger's markings), while noble individuals displayed "the refined elegance of leopard patterns" (moral excellence resplendent as a leopard's fur). Confucius embodied the flourishing ceremonial spirit of the Zhou dynasty—all these manifestations represent the brilliance of literary expression.

Literary composition is like the Eight Trigrams (Bagua, ancient divinatory symbols) originating from the feather patterns of raptors, or the Six Jia talismans (Daoist Fulu) derived from the shell markings of divine turtles. Truly exceptional writing remains precious even when emerging from humble origins, just as the pelts of dogs and sheep cannot compare. Fundamental things aren't necessarily all valuable, nor are peripheral matters invariably inferior—brocade requires plain cloth as its foundation, pearls gestate within oyster shells, clouds and rain arise from minuscule vapors, and mighty rivers begin as narrow streams. Thus although literature may be considered secondary to virtue (De), it should never be dismissed as inconsequential.

Some ask: Since most contemporary works seem inferior to ancient ones, and literary creations follow this pattern, is this the natural law of declining Qi (vital energy)? Ge Hong responds: While the theories of various philosophical schools differ in quality, all stem from the minds of great Confucian scholars and talented writers—not necessarily inferior to ancient works. Some writings contain profound and expansive thought comparable to ancient masterpieces, concealing unfathomable wisdom within while demonstrating boundless value in transmission. Their origins are lofty, their interpretations exquisite, their transformations unconstrained by conventional forms, and their insights unlimited to singular approaches. Just as those with biased tastes cannot discern true flavors, narrow-minded thinkers cannot grasp essential truths.

The Yinglong (legendary flying dragon) soars effortlessly to celestial heights, and sweat-blood steeds (precious horses) cover a thousand li with graceful strides—yet ants marvel at how they ascend without steps, and inferior horses resent being surpassed. If one judges extraordinary works by ordinary standards, measures boundless thought with limited understanding, applies crude criteria to refined artistry, or attempts to fathom profundity with shallow knowledge, then from youth to white-haired age one may gain nothing. Those who appreciate fine writing naturally praise it, while those who don't inevitably disparage—such is human nature. People often blindly revere ancient works while belittling contemporary creations: even when encountering wind-chasing steeds, they deem them inferior to those driven by the legendary charioteer Zaofu; even when finding treasures worth entire cities...

This passage employs a series of metaphors to illustrate people's prejudice of valuing the past over the present. Even if someone forges an exceptionally sharp sword, people will still claim it cannot compare to the works of ancient master swordsmith Ou Yezi; even if someone develops a miraculous medicine capable of reviving the dead, it will still be deemed inferior to the prescriptions of legendary physicians like Bian Que (both He and Que were renowned ancient doctors); even when extraordinary talents emerge, they are still considered lesser than the ancients recorded in historical texts; and even works that bring great benefit to the present age are dismissed as inferior to writings left by previous generations.

The author cites the example of Confucius (Zhongni), who was not valued by his contemporaries during his lifetime, and Yang Xiong (whose Taixuan Jing was mocked by people of his time). Ordinary people always insist that today's mountains are not as tall as those of antiquity, today's seas not as vast, today's sun not as scorching, and today's moon not as bright—how could such people ever admit that contemporary talents are no less remarkable than the ancients? People prize hearsay over what they see with their own eyes, a flaw that is by no means unique to this era.

Finally, the passage alludes to the ancient story of smashing a zither and cutting its strings (referring to Bo Ya breaking his strings after losing his musical soulmate), suggesting that the ancients had their reasons for such actions. The implication is that modern people's blind worship of the past is as extreme as cutting strings after losing a true appreciator. This critique targets the uncritical reverence for antiquity in society, pointing out how such rigid thinking prevents people from properly recognizing the value of the present.