《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 51

Ge Hong (styled Zhichuan, from Jurong in Danyang) recounts his family lineage in the "Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity":

Our Ge clan traces its ancestry to the ancient sovereign Ge Tianshi (legendary chieftain of prehistoric tribes), whose descendants gradually declined to become feudal lords, adopting "Ge" as their surname. My ancestor Ge Hong (namesake of the author) once served as Governor of Jingzhou. When Wang Mang usurped the throne, he resigned rather than serve the usurper. Later joining Zhai Yi, Governor of Dongjun, in rebellion against Wang Mang, he narrowly escaped execution after their defeat and thereafter feigned illness to live in seclusion. Wang Mang, fearing the Ge family's influence, forcibly relocated our branch to Langya.

Later, Ge Hong's son Ge Pulu rendered outstanding service assisting Emperor Guangwu (Liu Xiu). Upon ascending the throne, the emperor first appointed Ge Pulu as Chariot and Cavalry General, then promoted him to Senior General of Agile Cavalry, enfeoffing him as Marquis of Tong County in Xiapi with a fief of five thousand households. Ge Pulu's younger brother Ge Wen had repeatedly distinguished himself in battle, but the court deemed his service unofficial and denied him honors. Ge Pulu petitioned: "My brother fought alongside me through life and death, losing his right eye to severe wounds—yet receives no reward. How can I enjoy high position with peace of mind?" He thus requested to transfer his own title to his brother. The court, moved by this righteousness, granted his wish. Unable to refuse, Ge Wen ultimately accepted the marquisate, establishing his residence at Bowangli (whose foundation stones remain visible today), and shared his stipend with soldiers as if they had two lords. Ge Pulu's repeated admonitions proving futile, he eventually crossed the Yangtze River under pretext of travel, settling in Jurong to farm and study. Though later generations repeatedly invited him back, he never returned to Bowangli, only sending caretakers for the old residence in hopeful anticipation—yet it remained uninhabited for generations thereafter.

My grandfather was profoundly learned, particularly excelling in classical texts and historical writings. He served successively as magistrate of Haiyan, Lin'an, and Shanyin counties in Wu, later ascending to court positions including Vice Minister of Personnel, Palace Censor, Governor of Luling, Minister of Personnel, Junior Tutor to the Crown Prince, and important posts in the Central Secretariat.

This passage records the life of Ge Ti, father of Ge Hong (an important Daoist figure and author of Baopuzi), along with Ge Hong's early scholarly pursuits.

Ge Hong's father Ge Ti (courtesy name Xiaoxian) was renowned for his filial piety and fraternal love, his conduct serving as a model for scholars. Well-read in the classics, he held positions such as Wuguan Langzhong and Magistrate of Nanchang County under the Eastern Wu regime, later rising to become Governor of Kuaiji Commandery. When Jin forces advanced eastward along the Yangtze, he was appointed Military Governor of Five Commanderies, commanding five thousand personal troops to resist the invasion. Following political shifts, he subsequently served as Langzhong and Grand Master of the Palace. During his tenure as a local official, he governed effectively, transforming the people through virtue (De), administering clear justice, never appropriating public lands, and even purchasing his own stationery for official use—conduct that earned him deep affection from the populace. He passed away while serving as Governor of Shaoling.

Ge Hong was Ge Ti's third son, born late in his father's life and thus deeply cherished. In his childhood, he received lenient discipline. At thirteen, after his father's death, the family fell into decline, forcing him into farming amid hunger and cold. Amid wartime chaos, the family library was destroyed, leaving him to borrow books during agricultural off-seasons. Poverty compelled him to gather firewood for sale to afford writing materials, and he would study even while working in fields. Paper being scarce, he often overwrote characters until they became illegible.

Only at sixteen did he begin studying the Classic of Filial Piety, Analects, Book of Songs, and Book of Changes. Unable to travel for advanced education due to poverty, his limited exposure left many classical concepts obscure to him. Yet his passion for learning was such that he could recite all Confucian classics, histories, and philosophical texts he encountered. These arduous formative years laid the foundation for his later eminence in Daoist thought.

My memory is poor, and I've never grasped the essentials of study. Though I've browsed nearly ten thousand miscellaneous volumes, very little has stayed with me. My ambitions lack focus, my learning remains shallow—while I can occasionally cite passages in writing, I'll never become a pure Confucian scholar, nor am I fit to teach others as a master.

Those mystical charts like the River Map and Luo Writings? I flipped through them and set them aside. Nor did I care for studying celestial phenomena, numerology, the Nine Palaces system, Three Chess divination, or those Taiyi flying talismans—all struck me as tedious and dry. In later years, though I dabbled in wind angle divination, qi observation, the Three Cycles and Dunjia methods, Liuren prognostication, and Taiyi astrology, I only grasped their outlines without deeper study. These techniques all served others' needs, requiring exhausting effort—better to read the Hundred Schools of Thought, I decided, and eventually abandoned them altogether.

When I saw library catalogs listing over thirteen thousand volumes, with documents since the Wei dynasty multiplying beyond count, I realized how many books I'd never touched. Jiangnan's collections were incomplete, so I once traveled to the capital seeking rare texts, only to turn back midway through wartime chaos—a regret that lingers. Now approaching forty, my youthful thirst for knowledge has waned. I seek only stillness and wuwei (non-action), retiring to farm in obscurity, preserving my simple life. Those grand ambitions for wide reading fade daily.

By nature I'm slow-witted, poor with words, homely in appearance—never one for self-adornment. Dirty, worn-out hats and shoes, patched clothing bring me no shame. While worldly fashions shift—now wide collars with broad sashes, now narrow cuts with long sleeves, now floor-length robes, now short jackets baring ankles—I keep wearing my old-style garments. My speech is blunt, devoid of humor; with incompatible company I'll stay silent all day. Thus my villagers dubbed me "The Simpleton Who Embraces Simplicity," and later when writing, I took "Master Who Embraces Simplicity" (Baopuzi) as my pen name.

Born sickly and frail, my family too poor for carriages or horses, I dislike walking. More than that, I detest how society neglects fundamentals for trivial socializing—so I shut my gate in reclusion, content with quiet poverty. Even when powerful nobles reside nearby, I never seek their favor. Dwelling behind a firewood gate in a modest courtyard, I ask no fame nor prominence, merely to pass my remaining days this way.

Living in a drafty, dilapidated house with an empty stomach—these are not true sorrows. The real sorrow lies in possessing empty fame while remaining confined indoors (referring to detachment from reality).

My home is so poor that I don’t even have a servant. The fence has collapsed, the courtyard is overgrown with thorns and weeds, and wild grass crowds the steps. To go out, I must push through the bushes; to enter, I must part the tangled undergrowth. Some criticize me for feigning nobility and ignoring immediate hardships, but they fail to understand that my absence from official visits, funeral condolences, and visits to the sick is due to my frail health making it difficult to manage everything. Whenever I am blamed, I admit fault but offer no defense. As long as my conscience is clear, I care little about being misunderstood.

Only those who truly understand will see that I am not pretending to be aloof. The world favors superficial socializing, but I believe that knowing a person’s face is not the same as knowing their heart—even sages find this difficult. Hollow pleasantries are harmful and pointless. Even if I cannot cut off social ties as thoroughly as Zhu Mu (a renowned scholar of the Eastern Han), I at least choose my associations carefully. Because of this attitude, I have offended many, yet I refuse to change.

Those who fawn on power despise my independence, calling me arrogant and reckless. In truth, I simply follow my own heart, indifferent to others’ judgments. What I detest most are those who, relying on their own strengths, look down on others. Though I am no great Confucian scholar, in conversation I always consider the other’s understanding, never forcing obscure doctrines upon them. In debates with learned peers, I stick to key points, and if they struggle to grasp something, I leave it for them to reflect on and comprehend in time. With those unfit for deep discussion, even if they ask, I often feign ignorance to spare wasted words.

By nature, I dislike currying favor with officials. Since childhood, I have helped several unrecognized talents among my friends, yet I never pleaded their cases to those in power. Though none of them appreciated it, I still cannot harden my heart when I see others in hardship.

This passage describes Ge Hong's (also known as Baopuzi) principles for conducting himself and his attitude toward interpersonal relationships.

He maintained clear boundaries with different types of people: with unreasonable, self-serving individuals, no matter how close their relationship might appear, he kept his distance. He would never compromise his principles to associate with someone merely because of their power or status. Yet when facing genuine hardship and needing assistance, he wouldn't hesitate to ask friends for help. After receiving aid, he would carefully remember the kindness and gradually repay it over time—doing so discreetly without the benefactor noticing. He absolutely refused to accept gifts or money from those who didn't share his values.

When Ge Hong had surplus grain, he would share it with those in need; but if his own supplies were insufficient, he wouldn't force himself to make sacrifices. He paid no attention to superficial displays of propriety, nor did he deliberately flaunt his integrity. When ordinary villagers visited with wine and food—even if their social standing seemed mismatched—he never turned them away, always finding opportunities later to reciprocate their kindness.

He particularly despised those who neglected their proper duties: farmers who abandoned their fields to chase ill-gotten gains, officials who abused their power in local evaluations to sell government posts, sycophants who fawned over the powerful to extort money, those who shielded criminals for bribes, seized commoners' farmland, forced labor to exploit people, or monopolized markets for excessive profits. With such individuals, he resolutely refused all association.

Because of these principles, worldly people considered Ge Hong aloof and eccentric, gradually distancing themselves until his gate grew quiet with few visitors, his reception hall stood empty of casual guests, and one could practically set nets in his courtyard to catch sparrows while dust gathered on his tea tables. Yet from youth to old age, he never gossiped about others' faults or exposed private matters—not even teasing servants about their shortcomings. Unless pressed by elders, he absolutely refrained from judging people's merits or casually criticizing others. When speaking of someone, he would only mention their commendable qualities.

Ge Hong discusses his approach to evaluating others in the Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity. He explains that when writing, he only highlights people's merits and never deliberately points out their flaws, thus avoiding resentment. When powerful figures inquire about the character or abilities of officials or commoners, he speaks solely of their virtues; if asked about corrupt or incompetent individuals, he pleads ignorance. This approach often draws criticism for being overly diplomatic and failing to clearly distinguish right from wrong, yet he steadfastly refuses to change.

Ge Hong observed how people in his time freely passed judgment on others, often making inappropriate comparisons and unfair assessments. Those praised might not truly possess virtue, while those criticized would nurse grudges. Recognizing this, he became even more cautious—refraining from evaluating even fellow scholars, and leaving judgments about his own clansmen to public consensus rather than asserting his own views. When mocked for this, he responded: "If I can’t even accurately assess which ancient sage or contemporary I might compare myself to, how can I casually evaluate others?"

He cited the example of the "Monthly Assessments" (Yuedan Ping), a practice initiated by figures like Xu Shao (styled Zijiang) in the late Han dynasty, where people were publicly evaluated on the first day of each month. This custom, he noted, fueled factionalism and mutual slander in the Ruyan region—so much so that even Cao Cao despised it. Ge Hong emphasized the difficulty of truly knowing others: not even fathers or elder brothers fully understand their kin, and agreement with one’s own views doesn’t guarantee correctness, just as disagreement doesn’t imply error. Even sages like Emperor Yao, the Duke of Zhou, Confucius, and Ji Zha had regrets—how much less should ordinary people presume to judge others based on partial impressions.

Finally, he mentions how, during Shi Bing’s rebellion in the Tai’an era (302–303 CE) of the Western Jin, he was forcibly conscripted as a general by the volunteer army’s commander. His participation, however, stemmed primarily from defending his homeland and upholding the ancient Daoist principle of aiding those in crisis—not from any enthusiasm for warfare. This passage reflects Ge Hong’s cautious approach to life and his critique of the reckless tendency to pass judgment on others.

Ge Hong (a renowned Daoist master of the Eastern Jin Dynasty) led several hundred recruited soldiers to join the military campaign against rebel forces. On the day they captured an enemy stronghold, mountains of gold, silver, and treasures lay scattered everywhere, with rare curiosities strewn across the ground. Soldiers from other units abandoned their weapons to plunder the spoils, filling their carts to overflowing. Only Ge Hong strictly forbade his troops from leaving formation, executing on the spot any soldier caught hiding loot as a warning to others. When hundreds of ambushing rebels suddenly attacked, other units—burdened by plunder, slowed in movement, and demoralized—suffered heavy casualties. Ge Hong's disciplined ranks alone maintained formation, emerging unscathed while rescuing routed allies.

In another battle, Ge Hong beheaded an enemy commander and captured numerous suits of armor, reporting this victory to headquarters. The commanding general awarded him the title "Wave-Subduing General" with the customary reward of a hundred bolts of silk. While most officers hoarded such rewards or shipped them home, Ge Hong distributed his among soldiers and impoverished relatives, keeping only ten bolts to exchange for wine and meat to feast his troops—an act of righteousness celebrated in popular accounts.

After pacification, Ge Hong immediately laid down his arms and headed for Luoyang (then the capital), intent solely on seeking rare texts, utterly indifferent to military honors. He admired the integrity of ancient worthies like Lu Zhonglian who refused gold from Liaocheng and Shen Baoxu who declined rewards for saving Chu, believing true nobility lay in withdrawing after achievement. When northern conflicts blocked his path and the rebel Chen Min cut off routes to his homeland, his old friend Ji Judao—newly appointed as Governor of Guangzhou—invited him to serve as military advisor. Though reluctant, Ge Hong accepted to escape turmoil, traveling south ahead to muster troops. After Ji Judao's assassination during this mission, Ge Hong remained in Guangzhou despite repeated summons from generals, steadfastly refusing official posts.

Ge Hong had profound realizations: Wealth and status accumulate gradually, never overnight, with trivial toils pointlessly draining vitality. Power and privilege are but transient guests—neither eternal possessions nor retrievable when lost. The most glorious influence eventually fades like spring blossoms withering in an instant; neither gain warrants exultation nor loss merits sorrow. Reflecting on the anxieties and troubles accompanying worldly success, he deemed them unworthy pursuits. Moreover, he recognized his innate disposition aligned with Daoist ideals of naturalness and wuwei (non-action), rendering him constitutionally unsuited to bureaucratic constraints.

Human talents are inherently limited, yet we still lazily neglect to address our shortcomings. Even if one were to grovel and hustle through worldly affairs, it would still be difficult to attain high status or renown to avoid calamity—let alone failing even to do that much.

Why not cultivate the longevity practices of Chisongzi (the legendary immortal) and Wangzi Qiao (the crown prince of King Ling of Zhou, who later became an immortal)? This path depends entirely on oneself, with no need to rely on others. I intend to ascend famous mountains to gather medicinal herbs, refine my diet, and nurture my inner nature. This does not mean completely abandoning worldly affairs, but human life cannot encompass everything at once. If one does not temporarily set aside mundane duties, how can one focus wholeheartedly on the tranquil practices of the Mysterious Gate (Xuanguan, a Daoist term for profound cultivation)? Moreover, true insight is inherently rare and cannot be casually discussed with just anyone.

For this reason, I have never ridden in carriages to visit the mansions of the powerful, nor have I exchanged letters with officials. Though I cannot entirely detach from scholarly circles, those who come to visit often bring intentions that hinder my cultivation, forcing me to sigh: Is the Dao not present in the mountains and forests? The ancients secluded themselves in deep mountains precisely to distance themselves from worldly clamor, allowing their spirit (Shen) to remain undisturbed!

Now, I shall fulfill my long-held aspiration—to leave my hometown and journey to Mount Song, following in the footsteps of the immortal Wang Fangping (a renowned Eastern Han mystic) and the recluse Liang Hong (a famous Eastern Han hermit). My earlier works, Baopuzi: Inner and Outer Chapters, are already complete, but I will now organize some additional writings to leave for posterity.

The poetry, rhapsodies, and miscellaneous essays I wrote at fifteen or sixteen once seemed passable to me, but by twenty, most appeared unsatisfactory. This was not due to declining talent but to increased discernment. Thus, I heavily revised them, preserving less than a tenth. Currently, aside from my philosophical treatises, I have over a hundred volumes of miscellaneous writings yet to be edited, but the chaos of the times has left me without the heart to refine them. Others feel satisfied once their writing is done, but my thoughts are slow—each revision reveals the crudeness of earlier drafts, though I am too lazy to polish them repeatedly.

In my twenties, I realized that scattered writings consumed too much time, so I resolved to establish a school of thought and began composing philosophical works. Amidst war and displacement, some manuscripts were lost, yet I continued writing for over a decade. By the Jianwu era (Eastern Jin dynasty), I finally completed the Inner Chapters (20 volumes), Outer Chapters (50 volumes), along with 100 volumes of inscriptions, eulogies, poetry, and rhapsodies, 30 volumes of military proclamations and official documents, and compiled lesser-known works like Biographies of the Immortals.

This passage comes from Ge Hong's Baopuzi Outer Chapters, primarily expressing the author's critical stance toward popular recreational activities of his time.

Ge Hong mentions that he compiled works such as Biographies of the Immortals (Shenxian Zhuan) and Biographies of Recluses (Yinyi Zhuan), as well as excerpted and organized various classical texts. He specifically notes that the Baopuzi Inner Chapters discuss Daoist cultivation and life-nourishing practices, while the Outer Chapters address Confucian concerns such as societal gains and losses.

The author candidly admits that he was naturally slow-witted from childhood and never excelled at children's games, showing no interest in pastimes like chess or gambling. He argues that such games may seem enjoyable but actually exhaust both body and mind, wasting time and corrupting virtue. Gambling, in particular, often leads to disputes—straining friendships at best, or at worst, causing calamities like those involving Duke Min of Song or the Crown Prince of Wu in history.

Quoting Confucius' reference to "sleeping by day," Ge Hong suggests that even napping is preferable to games, as it at least avoids resentment and conflict. He advocates that intelligent individuals should diligently study the classics, as Confucius did when reading the Book of Changes (Yijing) until the leather bindings wore thin ("three breaks in the webbing"). Ordinary people, he insists, should not indulge in frivolous games. Finally, he declares his own distaste for and abstention from such activities, dismissing them as mere amusements favored by worldly people.

The text mentions chupu, an ancient gambling game, and the phrase "three breaks in the webbing" (Weibian Sanjue), alluding to Confucius' dedication to study—references well-known to contemporaries. Through these contrasts, Ge Hong emphasizes that scholarly pursuit and moral cultivation hold far greater value than idle entertainment.

In my youth I studied archery, but lacked the strength to draw a mighty bow like that of Yan Gao (an ancient strongman). Archery, being one of the Six Arts, serves both for self-defense against enemies and hunting birds and beasts, so I persisted in practice. During my military service, I once felled a pursuing cavalryman with a single arrow, subsequently killing two bandits and a warhorse in succession—thereby escaping certain death. Later I also mastered techniques with sword-and-shield, single saber, and paired halberds, all of which contained esoteric principles passed down through oral formulas. When employing these against untrained opponents, one could truly prevail effortlessly. In later years I learned the seven-foot staff technique, enabling empty-handed defense against halberd attacks, yet these ultimately remain trivial skills—like the unicorn's horn or phoenix's talons—of little practical value.

From childhood I (Ge Hong) resolved never to pursue official career. Whenever reading biographies of recluses like Chao Fu, Xu You, Zizhou Zhibo, Beiren Wuze, the Stone-House Farmer, the Jiang brothers, the Yuan cousins (Yuan An and Yuan Hong), Fazhen, and Zilong, I would set the scroll aside in solemn reverence, my heart yearning to follow their path. My original aspiration was to devote myself to the Five Classics, compose philosophical works to establish my name as a literary Confucian, and leave my mark for posterity. Later, when summoned by provincial governors and the General of Chariots and Cavalry, I consistently declined. Even after participating in Prince Langye's campaign to suppress rebellion—during which I never sought merit—the authorities never granted me recognition.

When the Prince of Jin upheld the Mandate of Heaven to rectify disorder and restore ancestral temples, protocol demanded honoring former contributors, yet none petitioned on my behalf. Later, upon receiving the imperial edict in the Gengyin year, I was enfeoffed as Marquis of Guanzhong with two hundred households in Jurong County. Though I wished to decline like Lu Zhonglian (Warring States scholar-recluse) or Tian Chou (Eastern Han hermit), court regulations forbade refusal—just as Confucius criticized Zilu for rejecting rightful rewards, fearing it would discourage virtuous conduct. With the realm still unsettled and the state emphasizing clear rewards and punishments, how dare I prioritize personal purity over national policy? Thus I accepted the decree with due reverence.

After completing this autobiographical account, some questioned: "When Wang Chong turned sixty and feared his ambitions unrealized and name forgotten, he wrote his Autobiographical Chapter. Why compose yours in the prime of life?"

This passage is Ge Hong's (Daoist name Baopuzi) autobiographical account from the final chapter of Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity. He laments how human life is as fleeting as morning mushrooms or spring blossoms, noting how even virtuous scholars like Xiangzi and Yangwu met untimely deaths. Throughout history, eminent figures achieved distinction either through literary brilliance or military prowess—their deeds recorded in classics, their reputations echoing through later ages.

With characteristic humility, Ge Hong describes himself as mediocre and out of step with his times, lacking both political patronage (referencing the powerful Jin and Zhang ministers of the Han dynasty) and like-minded companions. He compares himself to a traveler without a steed, a bird without the roc's wings—unable to support the state like a soaring eagle or bring honor to his ancestors. Though acknowledging these words won't alter one's fortune, he still hopes his writings might convey his thoughts to posterity.

The text employs classic Daoist imagery: "morning mushrooms" symbolize life's brevity, "spring blossoms" represent transient glory, while "qilin" (Chinese unicorn) and "roc" (peng bird) embody extraordinary talent. These metaphors vividly express the author's reflections on mortality and official career.