《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 36

Chapter 36 of Baopuzi's Outer Chapters discusses the principle of being content with poverty. Ge Hong (Baopuzi) illustrates this idea through a story.

During the turmoil at the end of the Han dynasty, a man known as Master Letian fled the chaos of war and took refuge in the mountains of Min and the region of Yizhou. Though he was a man of noble character, he did not conform to worldly ways. While some officials admired him, he never gained significant recognition. As he grew older, he continued to wear coarse clothing and live in poverty, dwelling in a simple thatched hut, often uncertain where his next meal would come from.

One day, a worldly nobleman came to challenge him: "Men of talent like Yi Yin and Lü Shang never remained poor and lowly for long, and shrewd merchants like Yi Dun never starved indefinitely. A wise man should know how to adapt—take Fan Li, for example, who not only helped the King of Yue achieve hegemony but also became immensely wealthy through trade after retiring. Poverty is one of life’s six misfortunes, while wealth is one of the five blessings. Just as fragrant bait is needed to catch big fish, only substantial rewards will attract brave men to serve. Sima Xiangru cast aside his apron to become an official, Chen Ping rose from his straw mat to become a marquis, Lü Buwei gained a fief of a hundred thousand households, and Zhou Bo turned his fate around after imprisonment—all because they understood this principle. Yet you stubbornly study the Six Classics, chasing empty fame, unwilling to employ extraordinary means to seek success. It’s as futile as drawing a cake to satisfy hunger or gazing at plums to quench thirst. Casting nets on cliffs or fishing from high trees—you may think yourself clever, but in truth, you are merely pedantic. By clinging to this path, you’ll leave no lasting achievements behind."

This dialogue highlights the conflict between the Daoist ideal of contentment in poverty and the worldly pursuit of profit and fame. Through the story of Master Letian, Ge Hong expresses admiration for those who uphold virtue without conforming to societal pressures, while also reflecting the widespread obsession with wealth and status in his time.

The passage paints a vivid picture of a chaotic and turbulent era: the world is fragmented, with factions tearing at each other like wolves baring their fangs. Those in power casually wave their sleeves to dictate right and wrong, while true scholars suffer unjust persecution. Those who should be upholding orthodox Confucian teachings now study the stratagems of the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period; scholars meant to delve into the Four Books and Five Classics are preoccupied with pandering to worldly judgments. The wealthy and powerful easily gain access to the imperial court, while the truly learned are pushed to the margins of society. Those who offer generous bribes can pass off clay tiles as precious jade, while those who refuse to bribe—even if gifted as fine as a thousand-mile steed—are left unrecognized. Cliques rise like whirlwinds to high positions, while those unskilled in networking sink like crippled turtles to the bottom of the water.

The author laments: Just as a handful of dirt cannot stem the surging waves of Lake Poyang, how can a few virtuous men reverse the decay of this age? Then, with rhetorical poignancy, he asks: Why does someone as erudite as you, yet mired in poverty, not set sail and seek opportunities in the south? Why labor here, writing in hopes of changing your fate through words? Such bitter striving for fame is precisely what the Huang-Lao school of Daoism disdains.

Master Letian (the interlocutor) replies: Mastery of the Six Classics and Eight Divinations (referring to all manner of classical texts) is the greatest wealth, and the ability to write well is the highest honor. Pursue virtue, and virtue will be yours—why concern yourself with anything else? Secluded by deep pools, I cultivate my spirit, transcending worldly attachments to find joy within. Amidst the clamor of the age, I preserve clarity of mind. Even if offered the rank of prime minister, I would not alter my purpose. How could I, in poverty, compete with merchants for profit, or in hardship, vie with mediocrities for fame?

Finally, with metaphor, he illustrates: You know that trade brings wealth and farming fills the belly, but fail to consider that those chasing elk cannot spare time to catch rabbits, and those traveling far arrive late. Just as Grand Duke Jiang (Shangfu) once worked as a butcher yet ultimately achieved greatness, or as a weight of ten thousand jun requires gradual accumulation to move—true accomplishment lies not in petty gains but in the pursuit of lasting fulfillment.

The tempest cannot sway the panpipes of refined music; until the ninth movement of the Shao melody (the ancient music of Emperor Shun) is played, the phoenix will not descend. This is like the roc awaiting the whirlwind to soar ninety thousand li—it would never be content fluttering among thatch tips, just as one who possesses the steed with "orchid sinews" (a legendary thousand-mile horse) would never jostle with lame donkeys on narrow paths.

The truly filial fear bringing shame to their parents—thus even descending the hall steps filled Zichun (a paragon of filial piety) with trepidation. The supremely wise value not rare treasures—hence the sage-kings Yao and Shun discarded gold while cherishing jade. The perspicacious eliminate calamities before they arise; the discerning consider harm when hearing of profit. Yet you ask me about merchant voyages and hoarding wealth, like using the Pearl of Marquis Sui (a mythical jewel) to shoot birds or thrusting hands into a tiger's maw—endangering the body for distant gain, forgetting the parental gift of one's physical form while obsessed with perilous profit.

When whirlwinds crumble cliffs, uproot trees, and send boulders flying; when the Wave God Yanghou raises mountainous waves—then the light boat scatters like dust, leaving only futile lamentations. Thus we comprehend the foresight of the enlightened: Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) praised for his poverty; Chen Ping (Han dynasty minister) spared Empress Lü's suspicion through destitution; Guanghan (possibly the harsh official Zhao Guanghan) destroyed by greed; Niu Que (a Warring States recluse) murdered for his treasures. Commoners die unjustly for hiding jade; the luxuriant fox is hunted for its pelt. Now you urge me to teach thievery and advocate bandit tactics—like offering poisoned wine, this is no path to nurturing life.

True scholars regard the Three Mounds and Five Canons (legendary ancient texts) as golden zithers, their lecture halls as ritual bells, and the Hundred Schools of Thought as reed pipes. Let seekers of Dao (the Way) be nourished by words, and drunkards of De (Virtue) sobered by principle. Transcending vulgar customs with noble conduct, surpassing eras with enduring renown—why stain one's nature with wealth? Hoarded riches invite ruin; excessive humility breeds suspicion. Carrying the Night-Shining Pearl risks disembowelment; retreading old paths ensures capsizing. Overloaded boats sink; excessive desires kill. These are the concerns of petty men—the truly virtuous never traffic in them.

Hearing this, the questioner stood lost in contemplation, then begged to become a disciple, vowing forever to cherish this prescription for longevity.