《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 50

Ge Hong (Daoist name Baopuzi) discusses in the Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity: The greatest calamity in human life lies in insatiable greed, while the greatest blessing comes from knowing when to stop. Those who maintain humility and restraint often preserve themselves, whereas those indulging in comfort and wealth rarely endure.

Ancient sages like Shan Juan, Chao Fu, Xu You, Guan Ning, and Hu Zhao all soared like birds among clouds, following the traces of dragons and phoenixes far from worldly dust. They knew to withdraw their brilliance when facing tempting bait, drew lessons from overturned carriages, and chose smooth paths over perilous roads. Like Zhan He who could foresee underwater conditions while fishing, they recognized signs of impending frost before ice formed, moved firewood before flames grew strong, and furled sails before storms arrived. They never built nests on fragile reeds nor slept beneath crumbling cliffs—all because of their profound vision and foresight.

These elevated beings connected their spirit (Shen) with heaven and earth, their minds transcending material desires. Worldly temptations couldn't stain their purity, nor could immediate gains disturb their clarity. Without such natural transcendence, one can hardly attain life's highest state.

Consider this: when cunning hares are all hunted, hounds get boiled; when high-flying birds are all shot, fine bows get discarded. Reflect on Peng Yue and Han Xin's fates to understand withdrawing at one's peak; observe Fan Li and Wen Zhong's outcomes to grasp the wisdom of golden statues. Fan Li retreated by boat, Xue Sheng avoided chaos to preserve integrity, the Shu brothers returned official seals at the height of power, Tian Yu relinquished his sash after achieving merit—all avoided the calamity of extreme prosperity declining, maintaining unsullied twilight years. Such purity could cleanse millennia of dust; such virtuous teachings could awaken later generations from delusion.

Conversely, those lacking wisdom yet scheming grandly are like weak shafts unable to bear heavy loads; those stubbornly opposing consensus are like excessive loyalty breeding suspicion. Some invited Chao Cuo's misfortune through lofty rhetoric, others suffered Wu Qi's fate through exhaustive dedication. Even sages like Duke of Zhou and Confucius faced exile—Jia Yi was demoted to Changsha, Sima Qian endured unjust punishment, Yue Yi who pacified Qi fell under suspicion, Wu Zixu who conquered Chu met execution, Bai Qi with monumental military achievements was forced to suicide... All these men, despite high positions, couldn't escape misfortune.

This passage employs historical anecdotes and natural phenomena to expound the Daoist wisdom of contentment and self-preservation:

During the Spring and Autumn period, Wenzi expanded territories through brilliant strategies, while Han Xin's military prowess ultimately led to his execution. These examples demonstrate how clinging to power invites disaster, unlike Fan Li who wisely withdrew after achieving merit. The truly wise know to choose virtuous rulers, and withdraw when leadership proves unworthy—thus preserving both integrity and reputation, which constitutes the greatest blessing.

The author draws parallels with natural phenomena: when arrows fill the sky, the phoenix folds its wings; when traps litter the road, the qilin conceals its tracks. Human desires are boundless, yet Daoist practitioners use wisdom to temper them. Just as an archer knows when to relax the bowstring, or a charioteer when to rein in galloping steeds—ships perpetually riding the waves will sink, and constant swordplay leads to self-injury.

The sacrificial vessel (qǐqì) in Zhou's temple teaches that "fullness invites loss"—a passerby recognized when Yang Youji should lower his bow, just as Yan Hui foresaw Dongye Bi's impending chariot wreck. The pinnacle of success is hardest to maintain: not all drinkers become drunk, yet drunkenness is common; not all wealth brings danger, yet peril often follows. True wisdom lies in foreseeing outcomes at their inception—like refraining from lofty claims when stacking tiles, or discussing fur coats amidst foxes.

The ancients' feigned madness wasn't inherent nature but situational necessity. Yet sometimes even reclusion couldn't avert disaster, as when Gong Sheng starved himself to uphold principles, or Li Ye was forced to take poison. These cases illustrate how excessive striving harms life—like the Song farmer who pulled seedlings to hasten growth, or the Chu archer who overbent his bow, seeking speed but finding swift ruin. The contented enjoy perpetual peace, while the covetous court constant peril—this is the Dao of heaven and earth.

This passage expounds the Daoist principle of knowing when to stop and following the natural course in human affairs.

One who moves without leaving traces like walking on water, and abides in stillness united with Wuwei (non-action), shall remain free from calamity. Those who flaunt their talents and display sharp edges may achieve merit in peaceful times, but cannot even protect themselves in turbulent eras. I've heard that no flame burns forever, no full vessel remains unspilled—glory ultimately turns to ashes, spring grass must wither. The sun declines after reaching its zenith, the moon wanes after becoming full; as the seasons cycle, one should withdraw after accomplishing deeds.

Viewed from afar: even the tallest structure will collapse if built recklessly upward. Seen up close: the most delicious food harms the body when consumed without restraint. How much more dangerous for those wielding great power yet failing to restrain themselves? Like mosquitoes alighting on mountains can still fly away, but rhinos and tigers falling from heights are shattered—this shows greater figures must especially maintain proper measure.

Adhering to the Dao (the Way) and speaking bluntly inevitably offends others, while bending principles and flattering makes one lose integrity. Isn't such a position exhausting? Thus few preserve both reputation and life, while many meet disgrace and ruin.

Some indulge in extravagance: dwelling in ornate mansions with beauties singing and dancing, feasting endlessly; traveling with magnificent carriages and imposing retinues. But these are superficial displays—true wisdom lies in understanding the principle of knowing when to stop.

This passage from the Outer Chapters of Baopuzi explores the relationship between talent and opportunity, using vivid analogies to illustrate how personal ability interacts with the circumstances of the times.

When a person enjoys favorable conditions, with every pleasure and luxury at their disposal and praise coming from all sides, it is easy to become complacent and arrogant. One might even dismiss ancient sages like Yi Yin, Lü Shang, Guan Zhong, and Yan Ying as insignificant, failing to recognize that prosperity and decline, honor and disgrace, follow each other as naturally as day and night. Few can willingly resign from high office and retreat into seclusion when at the height of their success.

Someone might ask: If two individuals are equally talented, why does one struggle while the other prospers? Does this not suggest that unrecognized talent is a great pity? Baopuzi responds: When ability is equal but outcomes differ, the key lies in whether one encounters someone who appreciates their worth. Fortune and misfortune are decreed by heaven; success and hardship are matters of fate. Those who understand timing do not resent obscurity, and those who comprehend fate do not lament adversity.

Just as famed swords like Chen Lü and Ting Jun, though sharp, cannot demonstrate their power if never wielded, or precious jades like Yao Hua and Li Lü, if cast into the mud, become indistinguishable from common tiles—valuable things are not always treasured, and talented individuals are not always employed. Ordinary people often lack discernment, unable to distinguish true worth. They assume that those who prosper must be virtuous, unaware that some attain status through opportunism, while dismissing the struggling as incompetent, ignorant of those who remain steadfast in principle despite hardship.

If the sun and moon were not suspended in the sky, they could not illuminate the world; if towering mountains lacked the earth as their foundation, they could not rise to the heavens. Hares run swiftly only on level ground, and dragon boats show their speed only in rushing currents. The spark of fire cannot ignite without Suiren (the legendary discoverer of fire-making), and the metal of Chu cannot become a fine blade without Ouyezi (the master swordsmith). Flowers bloom only when spring arrives, and wild geese soar high only with strong winds at their backs. Just as the four sacred mountains would go unrecognized without their prominence, talented individuals remain unappointed without proper recommendation—just as Guan Zhong would never have been employed without Bao Shuya’s advocacy.

Tian Rangju rose to prominence through Yan Ying’s recommendation, and Han Xin (Marquis of Huaiyin) realized his potential thanks to Xiao He’s recognition. Zhi Du gained office through Yuan Ang’s praise, and Chen Ping (Marquis of Quyi) seized his opportunity with Wei Wuzhi’s support. Xu Shu (styled Yuanzhi) introduced Zhuge Liang (styled Kongming) to Liu Bei, and Zhou Yu (styled Gongjin) recommended Taishi Ci (styled Xingba). It was through such discerning patrons that these worthy individuals achieved greatness and left their mark on history.

Through historical allusions and natural analogies, this passage demonstrates that talent requires both opportunity and advocates to fulfill its potential. It underscores the importance of timing and recommendation while advising readers to maintain perspective on the vicissitudes of fortune and adversity.

At the twilight of the Eastern Han dynasty and the decline of the Wu Kingdom during the Three Kingdoms period, the social ethos had utterly deteriorated. Talent selection depended solely on political allegiance, and a person's worth was measured by the size of their faction. Those who curried favor with the powerful were not necessarily capable—they survived simply by pandering to authority. Likewise, those with numerous followers weren't always exceptional—they were deemed useful merely through collective flattery.

Those in power typically suffered two flaws: either obstinately clinging to their biases while obsessing over mediocrities, or harboring such prejudice that they couldn't fairly evaluate true talent. Consequently, appointments were based not on merit but on personal connections, and standards became entirely arbitrary, dictated by private relationships. Among the so-called refined scholars and influential figures of that era, few could rise above such prejudice. Worse still, they nursed three toxic tendencies: resenting independent thinkers, envying those superior to themselves, and scorning scholars of humble origins.

How lamentable! Countless virtuous individuals—those of integrity who refused to drift with the tide—remained unrecognized. Some languished in obscurity among mountains and forests; others held court positions in name only, their roles hollow. They cultivated De (Virtue) yet were born at the wrong time, possessed rare skills yet found no appreciation. Some waited until gray-haired for a wise ruler who never came; others exhausted themselves in service without ever being understood. Priceless treasures were buried in mud, and world-saving talents spent lifetimes with no outlet. Had Fu Yue (the Shang dynasty sage-minister) not encountered King Wuding, he would have remained a mason forever. Had Jiang Ziya not met King Wen of Zhou, he'd have died an obscure fisherman. Through the ages, how many such regrets exist? To grieve only over personal misfortune would be pitifully narrow-minded.

Seeing the long road ahead, the mediocre grow weary; knowing the path is blocked, they still refuse to change. The truly enlightened regard both fortune and adversity as natural, transcending glory and disgrace, gain and loss. Why would they fret over lacking kindred spirits? Why sigh at flowing water, mourning time's passage? To assume sages harbor regrets is to misunderstand the highest state of mind. Just as summer insects cannot fathom ice, and well frogs know nothing of the ocean—this is simply the way of nature.

(The Chapter of Repetition) My friend Master Xuanbo had, by age fifteen, mastered all classics. He studied from dawn till dusk, pored over texts deep into moonlit nights. No principle was too profound for his inquiry; no argument too subtle for his scrutiny. He fortified himself with Confucian and Daoist doctrines as moats, wielded wisdom and dialectics as weapons—thus in debate, none could best him.

This passage expounds the principle that true wisdom lies in measured speech. Those genuinely wise refrain from casual discourse, understanding that maintaining silence (shouyi, "guarding the One") prevents transgression. When one comprehends ultimate truth, words become like fishing traps—tools to be discarded after use. But when straying from the Dao (the Way), one finds their solitary song meets no echo, however skillfully sung.

The author heeds Laozi's warning that "much talk leads to exhaustion," emulating the ancient parable of the golden man with triple-sealed lips. He withdraws his brilliance like one slow of speech, concealing his talents deep within. When a disciple questioned his day-long silence—"How does your silence differ from ordinary men? A famed zither unplayed is but scrap bronze; a fine chime unstruck mere stone"—the master Xuanpa replied:

"I seek fame that echoes through millennia, searching for understanding ears yet unborn. Why crave contemporary approval? Like serving fine wine in crude pottery—none will become intoxicated. A lowly man's profound speech, however correct, finds no believers. The ancients said 'At sixty, one laughs at fifty-nine's delusions'—how can we awaken without first wandering lost? Must jade declare its hardness, metal its strength, ice its chill, or fire its heat?"

Through vivid metaphors, the text illustrates how excessive speech invites error: Even sublime music contains flaws; the legendary archer Yang Youji might miss his hundredth shot; riverbank strollers risk drowning; debaters court verbal missteps. But Boya's careful fingering never errs, just as Confucian restraint preserves propriety. The shallow-minded invert this—debating phantoms, nitpicking trivialities, touting useless theories while critiquing sages' works, abandoning true learning for heresy.

The conclusion delivers stinging satire: Arguing with the ignorant or lecturing the unappreciative resembles playing refined music for puppets or showing masterpieces to clay dolls—exhausting oneself like hacking knotty wood with a dull axe: the harder one strives, the farther from the goal, until flushed with frustration.

When speech becomes vulgar and malicious, frivolous and cutting words inevitably arise. Once tainted by such faults, the stains become difficult to cleanse. Better to preserve noble character through silence, speaking only with concise clarity while awaiting true understanding from those of genuine insight.

This passage comes from the 49th chapter of Ge Hong's Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi Waipian), discussing principles of personal conduct. The author argues that crude language corrupts one's De (Virtue/Power). Rather than leaving stains through mistaken speech, one should practice cautious words and measured actions. Here, "rare utterances" (希声) refers to speaking sparingly, while "great harmony" (大音) symbolizes noble virtue - emphasizing how restraint in speech preserves moral integrity.