The name 名
The Shuowen glosses fú 孚 as the brooding of eggs: a bird hatches its clutch on time without fail, and from that reliability the word comes to mean good faith. Zhōng Fú 中孚 is good faith held at the center, in the heart. The figure is symmetrical top and bottom, like the ancient tally split in two whose halves proved trust when they matched. Trust is not a slogan; the two halves really have to fit.
The image 象
Wind (Xun) blows over the lake (Dui), and the whole surface responds. Four yang lines lie outside and two yin lines at the center, so the figure looks like an enlarged Lí 離, and its two halves mirror each other like a reflection in water. Within each trigram the central line is yang, solid at the center; in the hexagram as a whole the middle lines are yin, empty at the center. Cheng Yi put it this way: emptiness at the center is the root of trust, solidity at the center its substance. An open, unprejudiced heart is where trust begins; real ability to deliver is what it is made of.
Layers of images 層
A gua can be read on several levels at once: the trigrams as members of a family (father, mother, eldest to youngest sons and daughters), the six lines as ranks in an organisation (from newcomer to ruler), and as forces of nature and animals. Each extra level adds meaning to the line texts.
Read as a family
Below is Duì, the youngest daughter; above is Xùn, the eldest daughter: two sisters, one over the other, with the two yin lines in the middle left hollow. The elder above is gentle and accommodating, the younger below answers with delight; neither is on guard, and each keeps a space in her heart for the other. That is what trust looks like. Trust between siblings rests not on contracts but on being willing to leave room inside.
Line 2, “a crane calls in the shade; its young answers”: Line 2 sits in the nuclear Zhèn of lines 2–4, thunder and calling, so the crane cries; lines 3–5 form a nuclear Gèn, the youngest son, the chick beside the grown crane. The mother calls softly from the shade and the young one answers without seeing her: sincerity needs no stage.
Line 3, “it meets its match: now drumming, now stopping, now weeping, now singing”: Line 3 stands in both the nuclear Zhèn and the nuclear Gèn. Zhèn is thunder, extended to beating the war drum; Gèn is stopping, extended to calling off the fight. Attack, halt, weep, sing: when trust is pinned on a rival, one’s moods rise and fall with theirs.
Line 5, “trust that binds them together; no blame”: Line 5 is in the upper Xùn, cord, and in the nuclear Gèn, the hand. A hand holding a cord that links the lines together: the ruler’s sincerity binds everyone close. But it and Line 2 are both yang and do not correspond, so the text says only “no blame,” not great fortune.
Top line, “the cock’s cry climbs to heaven; persisting is ominous”: Xùn is the chicken, and the top place is heaven’s position, so the crow rings up to the sky. A chicken cannot fly high, yet its voice carries far: the sound outruns the substance. When trust ends up as nothing but slogans, the louder they ring, the less they last.
Change all six lines of Zhōngfú and you get Xiǎoguò, Small Excess. Zhōngfú has four yang outside and two yin within, like a large hollow Lí; Xiǎoguò has four yin outside and two yang within, like a bird with spread wings. Both have birds: here the crane answering in the shade, there the bird that flies too high. The opposite of sincerity is not only deceit but losing one’s measure and flying ever farther off.
Turned upside down, Zhōngfú is still Zhōngfú: perfectly symmetrical, like a reflection in a lake. It looks the same from above and from below, which is just what sincerity is: whichever side someone stands on, they see the same you.
In sequence 序
節而信之，故受之以中孚。
The Sequence says: “With restraint comes trust, so Inner Truth follows.” Jié 節 was restraint, and only a person of restraint can be trusted. Speech without restraint is what Laozi meant when he said that easy promises bring little good faith; action without measure, whether too much or too little, breaks trust as well.
The judgment 辭
中孚：豚魚吉，利涉大川，利貞。
The Judgment: pigs and fishes, good fortune; it is fitting to cross the great river; it is fitting to be steadfast. Why pigs and fish appear has been argued for two thousand years. The philosophical school says pigs are restless and fish dull, the hardest of creatures to move, so trust that reaches even them reaches everywhere; the image-and-number school traces each animal back through the hexagram’s transformations. Either way, the point is that sincerity can travel very far, and that it is sustained only by long steadfastness.
Commentary on the judgment 彖
彖曰：中孚，柔在內而剛得中。說而巽，孚，乃化邦也。豚魚吉，信及豚魚也。利涉大川，乘木舟虛也。中孚以利貞，乃應乎天也。
The Commentary: the yielding lines are within and the firm lines hold the centers, the third and fourth inside, the second and fifth central. “Joyful and compliant, trust transforms the state”: Dui’s joy below and Xun’s gentleness above let good faith change a whole country. “Crossing the great river: riding a wooden boat that is hollow”: Xun is wood, and the two empty middle lines are like the hold of a boat. “Inner truth with steadfastness responds to Heaven.”
The great image 象
象曰：澤上有風，中孚；君子以議獄緩死。
The Great Image: wind over the lake; the noble person deliberates on legal cases and is slow to impose death. Dui below is the mouth, hence careful deliberation; Xun above is wind, which hesitates, hence delay in passing sentence of death. Within good faith lies Heaven’s love of life: in pursuing justice, one should understand as much as possible of a person’s circumstances and leave room for life. Compassion, though, does not mean discounting the law.
The six lines 爻
Ruling line The second and fifth lines, firm and central, are the “solid center” that gives trust its substance. Both are yang and so do not formally correspond, yet the empty middle lines leave nothing between them, and they answer each other directly. The fifth, central and correct, binding the lines together like a cord, is the core of the hexagram.
The path of the six lines, bottom to top
Line 1 rests in its own conviction: a settled heart is auspicious, and an ulterior motive brings no peace. Line 2 is the crane calling softly from the shade, unshowy and answered all the same, sincerity at its purest. Line 3 at the top of the lower trigram hangs its heart on a rival, now attacking, now calling a truce, now weeping, now singing, without a centre of its own. Line 4, entering the upper trigram, is the moon nearly full; it leaves its companion to follow the ruler, and there is no blame. Line 5 binds everyone closely with trust. At the top, trust is reduced to a high-pitched cry, loud though unable to fly, and persisting is ominous.
初九虞吉，有它不燕。
In plain words
Foreseeing brings good fortune; if there is something else, there is no peace.
Close reading
A yang line in a yang place, correctly positioned and paired with the fourth line: a good start. Yu 虞 was originally the official in charge of hills and forests who guided hunting parties, as in Zhūn’s line about chasing deer without a forester; it later came to mean foreseeing, as in Mencius’ “praise one did not foresee.” Above lies the nuclear Zhen of the second through fourth lines, overlapping Dui below, an image of thunder entering the lake, so this is a time to stay quiet. The Small Image says its will has not changed: being single-minded from the start keeps complications from sprouting.
If you drew this line
Get a clear view of the situation and settle your intent, and things go well. Don’t waver, and don’t open side issues.
九二鳴鶴在陰，其子和之，我有好爵，吾與爾靡之。
In plain words
A crane calls in the shade, and its young answer it. I have a fine cup of wine; I will share it with you.
Close reading
A yang line in a yin place, off its position but central. The crane was regarded as a yang bird, and here it sits in a yin place: “a crane calls in the shade.” The line lies within the nuclear Zhen, thunder and calling; the nuclear Gen of the third through fifth lines is the youngest son, the young crane that answers. The second and fifth lines are both yang and do not formally correspond, but with nothing solid between them they answer each other directly, as if sharing one cup. The Small Image says the response comes from the heart’s own wish. Lyrical as a poem from the Book of Songs, this is often called the most beautiful line in the Changes.
One level deeper
Line 2, “a crane calls in the shade; its young answers”: Line 2 sits in the nuclear Zhèn of lines 2–4, thunder and calling, so the crane cries; lines 3–5 form a nuclear Gèn, the youngest son, the chick beside the grown crane. The mother calls softly from the shade and the young one answers without seeing her: sincerity needs no stage.
If you drew this line
A sincere voice will find those who answer it. A good time to share, to collaborate, to deal openly. Be especially careful in word and deed, for their reach is wider than you think.
Words and Deeds Are the Hinge
The Great Treatise quotes this line with a comment from Confucius: when the noble person, at home, speaks words that are good, people a thousand li away respond, and how much more those nearby; when the words are not good, people a thousand li away turn against him, and how much more those nearby. Words go out from oneself and reach the people; deeds begin close at hand and are seen far away. Words and deeds are the hinge and trigger of the noble person, and their release decides honour or disgrace. Why should strangers a thousand li off, who owe us nothing, respond at all? Only because the words answer a need common to every human heart, which is itself a sign that human nature inclines to the good. If one has been careless before, it is not too late: begin now to make each word and act true, and others will soon see the change.
六三得敵，或鼓或罷，或泣或歌。
In plain words
Meeting a match: now beating the drum, now standing down, now weeping, now singing.
Close reading
A yin line in a yang place, neither central nor correct. Though it corresponds with the top line, it stands at the top of the lower trigram, face to face with the upper one. The two halves of the hexagram mirror each other, so the “match” it meets is an opponent exactly like itself. In the nuclear Zhen it beats the drum; in the nuclear Gen, stillness, it stands down; Dui below is the mouth that sings; Xun’s wind above is the voice of wailing. Advancing and retreating, weeping and singing by turns, it cannot settle, and the Small Image says this is because its position is not right.
One level deeper
Line 3, “it meets its match: now drumming, now stopping, now weeping, now singing”: Line 3 stands in both the nuclear Zhèn and the nuclear Gèn. Zhèn is thunder, extended to beating the war drum; Gèn is stopping, extended to calling off the fight. Attack, halt, weep, sing: when trust is pinned on a rival, one’s moods rise and fall with theirs.
If you drew this line
Facing an evenly matched situation, your moods and moves keep swinging, and the root cause is that you are standing in the wrong place. Steady yourself first, then decide whether to go or stay.
六四月幾望，馬匹亡，无咎。
Variant Shown as 「月幾望」; some editions read 「既」.
In plain words
The moon is just past full; the horse is lost. No blame.
Close reading
A yin line in a yin place, correctly positioned, paired with the first line and supporting the fifth. It has entered the upper Xun, which in the scheme matching trigrams to phases of the moon is the sixteenth day, just past full, when the moon begins to wane; hence “already past full” (the received text reads “almost full”; this follows the Mawangdui silk manuscript). By the transformation theory, Zhōng Fú comes from Dùn 遯 by way of Sòng 訟, and Dùn’s upper Qian, the horse, has disappeared: “the horse is lost.” The Small Image says it breaks from its kind and goes upward, leaving its fellows below to serve the fifth line. At the turn from fullness, and with something lost, it is still blameless because it is correctly placed and devoted to what is above.
If you drew this line
Fullness is turning to waning. Be willing to let go of old companions or supports and commit to the right direction; what you give up buys you freedom from blame.
九五有孚攣如，无咎。
In plain words
Possessed of trust, binding others to it: no blame.
Close reading
A yang line in a yang place, central and correct, the core of the hexagram. It sits in the upper Xun, the cord, and in the nuclear Gen, the hand: a hand holding a cord that ties all the lines together. Its trustworthiness is beyond doubt. Yet because it does not formally correspond with the second line, both being yang, the verdict is only “no blame”; the Small Image grounds this in its correct position. Real trust cannot be held together by visible ties alone.
One level deeper
Line 5, “trust that binds them together; no blame”: Line 5 is in the upper Xùn, cord, and in the nuclear Gèn, the hand. A hand holding a cord that links the lines together: the ruler’s sincerity binds everyone close. But it and Line 2 are both yang and do not correspond, so the text says only “no blame,” not great fortune.
If you drew this line
In a central role, hold people together through trust, but don’t rely only on rules and incentives to bind them; genuine understanding is what lasts.
上九翰音登于天，貞凶。
In plain words
The cock’s cry climbs to heaven; persisting brings misfortune.
Close reading
A yang line in a yin place, off its position, corresponding with the third line. The Book of Rites records that sacrificial animals in the ancestral temple were given elegant names, and the fowl was called hanyin 翰音, “soaring voice,” for its clear, high crow. Xun above is the fowl, the nuclear Zhen where the third line sits is calling, and the top place is heaven: the cry climbs to heaven. But a cock is a bird of the ground, and here its voice claims far more than its station and strength can support. The Small Image asks how this could last; at the end of the hexagram, with nowhere further to go, it cannot.
One level deeper
Top line, “the cock’s cry climbs to heaven; persisting is ominous”: Xùn is the chicken, and the top place is heaven’s position, so the crow rings up to the sky. A chicken cannot fly high, yet its voice carries far: the sound outruns the substance. When trust ends up as nothing but slogans, the louder they ring, the less they last.
If you drew this line
Reputation, promises or ambitions have outrun your real strength. Don’t keep forcing it; know yourself, return to what you can truly carry, and set out again by another road.
A Casting Before the Exam
A young graduate in religious studies was preparing for a civil-service examination with a pass rate of only a few percent, on subjects largely unrelated to his field. Before it he cast Zhōng Fú, top line: “the cock’s cry climbs to heaven; persisting brings misfortune.” The line speaks of a voice pitched above one’s footing and strength, and he did not pass. Yet the point is not resignation. The Changes are about change, and one result is not a verdict on a life. Rethinking one’s direction in adversity, adjusting the approach, choosing a different aim: after misfortune, good fortune can still emerge.
Stories 典
Three Readings of “Pigs and Fishes”
The phrase “pigs and fishes, good fortune” has drawn out every commentator’s ingenuity. Cheng Yi of the Song, reading for meaning, said pigs are restless and fish obtuse, the hardest of creatures to move; trust that reaches them reaches everywhere. Lai Zhide of the Ming took the creature to be the river puffer, which lives in great marshes and surfaces when a wind is about to rise, as if bowing to it; wind above lake is precisely its natural reliability. Yu Fan of the Han, a master of images and numbers, knew that neither pig nor fish can be found in Zhōng Fú’s own figure, so he derived the hexagram from Dùn through Sòng: Dùn’s nuclear Xun supplies the fish, Sòng’s lower Kan the pig. Each reading has its merits, but the Commentary says only that trust reaches pigs and fishes, which sits closest to Cheng Yi.
Tallies and Envoys
Zhōng Fú’s figure is symmetrical, like a tally split down the middle. In antiquity a token of bamboo, wood or metal was carved and divided, each party keeping one half; when they met, the halves were fitted together, and only a perfect join counted as proof. An envoy sent abroad carried such a tally, which is why the Chinese word for envoy, shijie 使節, contains it, and ambassadors are still called that today. Modern films have their own version: a banknote torn in two, and at the meeting the torn edges are matched to prove who is who. A tear cannot be forged, and neither can trust: the two halves must have been one piece to begin with.
Insight 悟
Trust has two parts, one empty and one solid. Empty: a heart free of prejudice that can take others in. Solid: real ability, so that what is promised gets done. Speak conservatively, act substantially. Words and deeds are the hinge of honour and disgrace, and one sincere sentence can be answered a thousand li away. Yet in this hexagram of trust, apart from the second line most lines reach only “no blame,” and the top line is ominous, a measure of how hard trust is: people working together bring different motives, and ties that arise from a shared task are fragile. Only long steadfastness, with reputation matching reality, lets trust stand.