《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 43

Someone once mocked me, saying: "Master, you cling to the Dao all day, hiding your traces and distancing yourself from worldly affairs, dwelling alone in desolate seclusion. Though you've ostensibly made up your mind, you still waver; while aspiring to transcendence, you remain entangled in worldly attachments. Laozi (Boyang) prioritized Dao and De (Virtue/Power), Zhuangzi was renowned for his carefree wandering—thus they established lofty character and left their glorious names through the ages. But you? You pride yourself on purity yet refuse official service, yet write books on the principles of ruler and minister; you avoid worldly interactions, yet compose critiques of current ills and essays on saving the people; you're as cautious as one cherishing precious feathers, yet study military strategy; you seek no official advancement, yet discuss the selection of talent and the vicissitudes of officialdom—I truly cannot understand you!"

I replied: "The great principle of ruler and minister is second only to the order of heaven and earth. The truly wise act righteously whether serving in office or living in seclusion, their words and deeds conforming to the times. Laozi advocated governing through Wuwei (non-action), and Master Guiguzi remained a recluse his entire life—did they not also write works discussing worldly affairs? Must one hold office to speak on governance? Just as uncarved jade remains precious and a submerged dragon is still divine, though my talent and virtue are meager, my words and deeds remain consistent whether in office or seclusion. Must only high officials discuss state affairs—are commoners forbidden to speak of order and chaos, prosperity and decline?"

I often find Zhuangzi's words and deeds contradictory: he criticized worldly achievements yet held minor office himself; he delighted in discussing metaphysical abstractions yet disparaged loyalty, integrity, and humaneness. It's like painted dragons and tigers that confuse truth and falsehood, or clay sacrificial offerings that cannot fill an empty stomach. Others say: "Your writings sharply criticize current ills with piercing words—this will likely only incur the displeasure of those in power. It's no way to establish your reputation."

I believe: "The value of tools lies in utility, not ornamentation; the purpose of writing is moral instruction, not currying favor with the world. If one only flatters and whitewashes reality, how can current ills be corrected? Like children's bamboo horses that cannot bear weight, or clay cakes piled on a table that cannot satisfy hunger. A noble person should uphold the true Dao—how can one abandon principles for empty fame?"

This passage expresses the author's (Ge Hong) critique of the pretentious literary trends of his time and his steadfast commitment to truthful expression in writing.

The author states: Some people abandon refined music (referring to high art like the "White Snow" melody) for fear it won’t be appreciated, or devalue precious treasures because they are hard to sell—I cannot agree with such practices. It’s not that I’m incapable of writing ornate prose to please readers, nor am I unaware that speaking bluntly may offend. But I simply cannot bear to betray my conscience or distort the truth. I seek only to be true to myself, trusting that future generations will recognize my sincerity. Life’s fortunes and misfortunes are governed by fate—why must one chase wealth and glory in the present moment?

A truly virtuous person, when speaking or writing, remains vigilant against clichés and avoids following the crowd. Those who merely pile up flowery phrases and indulge in empty metaphysical discussions are like Gongsun Long’s sophistry (a logician of the Warring States period known for paradoxes such as "hardness and whiteness" or "similarity and difference"). Though their words may dazzle—claiming that a flying bird’s shadow never moves, eggs grow feet, dogs can turn into sheep, or tortoises and snakes grow enormous—they are nothing but flashy tricks to impress. It’s like drawing a granary to stave off hunger, gazing at the Milky Way to quench thirst, discussing the fine jade of Kunlun Mountain while failing to relieve the poverty of Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius known for his destitution), or flipping through a medical catalog without curing an urgent illness. Mozi’s wooden hawk was less practical than a three-inch axle, and Guan Qing’s golden colt couldn’t pull a cart like a shabby horse. Theories that sound profound but lack practical value would never earn Confucius’s approval.

Through these contrasts, the author emphasizes that genuine writing should be grounded in reality. Pretentiously abstruse, superficially elegant words are like fabricated treasures or ineffective cures—clever in form but useless in solving real problems. He would rather maintain a simple, truthful style and wait for discerning readers to understand.