《通玄真经[注](徐灵府)》

The Great Dao has been in decline for a long time. Its faint traces are still preserved in the writings of the various schools of thought. Most of these schools looked back to the ideas of the Daode Jing and explained them in order to remedy the failings of society through the ages.

Wenzi lived during the reign of King Ping of Zhou and wrote twelve chapters. According to the Records of the Grand Historian, Wenzi was also called Jiran, and Fan Li once studied under him. His family name was Xin, his given name Yan, and his courtesy name Wenzi. He came from Caixu on the Pu River, and his ancestors were princes of Jin. He traveled abroad twice; after Fan Li met him, Fan Li became his attendant. Wenzi was also a disciple of Laozi.

King Ping of Zhou asked Wenzi, “I have heard that you received the Dao from the venerable Laozi. Even if a worthy person possesses the Dao, can one person, relying on his own authority, teach a people long mired in disorder when he lives in a chaotic age?” Wenzi replied, “Use De to correct evil and govern affairs; use it to quell disorder, revive sage-like virtue, and bring peace to all under Heaven. The decisive factor is the ruler alone. When virtue accumulates, the state flourishes; when resentment accumulates, the state perishes. This is why Yao and Shun prospered, while Jie and Zhou fell.” King Ping believed his words and appointed him. At that time, peace was restored throughout the realm.

The security or peril of a state, and the success or failure of its undertakings, are not decreed by Heaven. The key is whether the ruler appoints worthy people. Thus the sage worries for all under Heaven and cherishes the people as if they were his own children. His aim is to promote what benefits them, remove what harms them, and bring them peace—not to serve his own interests.

The Tongxuan Zhenjing first discusses the signs that foretold the rise and fall of ancient emperors and hegemonic rulers, then explains why Dao, virtue, and the rites gradually declined. Its scope ranges from profound principles to the myriad things of the world. Its meaning is vast and subtle, and its language both elegant and plain. Thus, a person who governs a state can restore society to simplicity even amid corrupt customs; a person cultivating the self can return to naturalness and accept Heaven’s mandate, even while burdened by grief and hardship. The principles of this book are truly profound, and a gentleman should approach them with an open mind.

During the reign of the eleventh emperor of the Tang dynasty, the emperor spread his teaching and brought the myriad things into harmony, so that the regions were pacified and differing customs grew more alike. Those who held high office therefore served with utmost loyalty, while those who lived in seclusion could remain content in their own pursuits.

I, Moxi Zi, came to the region of Mount Heng in the fourth year of the Yuanhe era of the Tang (809), and built a dwelling before Huagai Peak. For eight years I have followed a simple way of life and devoted myself to understanding subtle and profound principles. Now I can no longer remain silent, so I have made a reluctant effort to annotate this book. For me, this is as difficult as measuring the height of the Milky Way or estimating the depth of the sea.

—Preface by Moxi Zi

Among all things, the human being is the most precious. Yet if people cannot still the restless, ape-like mind and gain clear insight, or break through the snare of sensual desire and reach the Great Dao, their nature will change with their desires, and their lives will drift along with external things. Those who have attained the Dao are deeply concerned about this. The author therefore explains the foundations of the Great Dao and gives them a prominent place at the beginning of the book, so that people may start from the roots, approach the Dao step by step, and discern truth in the things of everyday life. Could this not have been deliberately arranged?

Laozi says: There is something that existed as a single, undivided whole before Heaven and Earth took shape. It is settled, clear, and enduring; hence we say that it is “something.” It nurtures and transforms the myriad beings; hence we say that it is “formed as one.” It came into being before Heaven and Earth and preceded all things. It has only an imageless image, without a fixed form: Heaven is lofty, distant, and vast, and may be said to possess a great image; the Dao is boundless and has no definite shape. It gathers into a single whole in emptiness and stillness; when its Qi (vital energy) spreads out, it becomes the myriad things.

The Dao is deep and obscure, quiet and unassuming. This describes a nature so subtle and profound that it is difficult to fathom. Its sound cannot be heard, because it is not a sound that can be heard; its form cannot be seen, because it is not a shape or color that can be observed. I can only give it a name, and call it “Dao.” Since it has neither sound nor shape, it has no fixed name, written characters, or words. What we now call the “Dao” is not its true title, but only a name given to it by necessity.

The Dao is too lofty to reach an end and too deep to measure. It has no visible image, and therefore no actual height or depth that can be measured. The Dao encompasses Heaven and Earth, and all things receive its nature of emptiness and stillness. Its source flows without ceasing, yet never overflows; like water, it does not diminish when drawn from. The text’s “zhuozhuo” describes the way water wells forth. When something turbid settles, it gradually clears; what seems to move contains stillness, and what seems murky contains clarity.

The Dao’s function is inexhaustible; how could it be limited to morning and evening? When it appears, it seems no larger than something held in one’s grasp; yet when grasped, it has no form. It can contract and expand, and be both hidden and revealed. It is as soft as fine hair, yet can penetrate metal and stone. Thus it can be Yin or Yang, soft or hard, large or small, short or long. Turn toward it, and you can experience its presence; turn away from it, and it seems to vanish. It is not bound to any fixed form, and its transformations follow no set pattern.

Mountains are high through the Dao, and abysses are deep through the Dao. Beasts run through the Dao, and birds fly through the Dao. The Qilin roams through the Dao, the phoenix soars through the Dao, and the sun, moon, and stars move through the Dao. Mountains rise high, abysses lie deep, auspicious beings appear and disappear, and the stars move and sink: each finds its proper place. This is the result of governance reaching its highest level and responding to the Dao. By forgetting oneself, one preserves oneself; by being humble, one earns respect; by yielding, one comes to the fore. One gives up oneself and thereby preserves oneself; takes the lowest position and is honored; willingly follows behind and is able to lead. Humility is the Dao’s nature, and yielding is why it brings benefit.

The Three Sovereigns of antiquity—Fuxi, Shennong, and the Yellow Emperor—grasped the essentials of the Dao. They established themselves at the center, joining their spirit to the flow of transformation and nurture, and thereby pacifying the four directions. In governing the realm, their inner spirit moved within them, while their beneficence filled the four directions. Thus they could make Heaven and Earth turn without stopping, as Heaven moves and Earth rests, and pass through growth and transformation together with all things, like the unceasing flow of water. Winds rose, clouds gathered, thunder sounded, and rain fell; the many changes answered one another without end. Here, “Heaven’s movement” means motion, and “Earth’s stillness” means stability. The sage models the motion and stillness of Heaven and Earth and the transformations of the myriad things. The sage’s commands go forth like thunder and rising winds, like moving clouds and falling rain, nurturing and bringing forth all things while meeting changes without end.

After being carved and adorned, return to simplicity. Cultivating the truth and acting with care is a way of refining oneself. Cast off attachments and return to emptiness and stillness, and you will naturally return to simplicity. Act through Wuwei (non-action), and you can accord with life and death. The Great Dao has no deliberate intention and lets all things follow their own nature; this is why it is called “non-action.” The living naturally live, and the dead naturally die: this is to accord with life and death. Acting without deliberate speech can bring one into accord with De (Virtue/Power); being calm and unassuming leads to harmony. Though all things differ, each can live according to its own nature.

Bring Yin and Yang into harmony, give the four seasons their proper rhythm, and balance the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water): these are the Dao’s constant workings. This does not mean that the sage remakes Heaven and Earth. Rather, the sage observes human affairs, follows the seasons, and understands human feelings, preventing evil from arising and thereby bringing peace. The Dao’s workings nourish plants and trees and permeate metal and stone; they make animals strong and their fur and feathers lustrous. Birds’ eggs do not spoil, and animals’ young do not die in the womb. All things grow and thrive according to their nature without harming one another. Fathers need not fear losing their sons, and elder brothers need not weep for younger brothers who die young. Children are neither orphaned nor cut off in their youth; women are not left widowed, and people can live together in safety. Rainbows do not appear, and baleful influences naturally remain hidden. Robbers no longer cause disorder, and the realm is at peace. All this follows from the sage’s cultivation of De and the nurturing transformation of all things.

The Way of Heaven moves constantly, bringing forth and transforming without end. It gives life to all things but does not claim them as its own; it brings about change but does not rule over them. It does not possess the myriad things, yet its presence is mysterious. It does not deliberately dominate, yet through this its true governing power becomes apparent. All things depend on it to live, yet do not know to feel gratitude toward it; they depend on it in death, yet cannot resent it. Since life is not something the Dao claims as its own, whom should one thank? Since death is not something the Dao inflicts, whom should one resent? The Dao gathers and sustains all things but does not thereby increase its wealth; it gives to all things but is not thereby diminished. It may nurture them without becoming full, or disperse them without becoming empty.

The Dao is indistinct and subtle, difficult to describe, yet its workings are inexhaustible within that indistinctness. It is deep and obscure, appearing through change without taking any fixed form. Seek it, and it seems that something is there; examine it closely, and it has no concrete shape. The Dao flows freely without obstruction, and its wondrous workings extend throughout the myriad things; it does not move without cause. It changes with the bending and straightening of hardness and softness, and accords with the waxing and waning of Yin and Yang. When it should bend, it bends; when it should straighten, it straightens, moving in accordance with the moment.

Laozi says: If a great person can realize the Great Dao, they will be calm and at ease, free of distracting thoughts and worry. When their conduct accords with the Dao, what need is there for anxious deliberation?

Take Heaven as the canopy of a chariot and Earth as its body, the four seasons as its horses, and the changes of Yin-Yang as the reins that guide its course. In this way, one can travel where there are no roads, wander without being constrained by pauses, and come and go without being blocked by gates. With Heaven for a canopy, nothing lies beyond its covering; with Earth for a chariot body, nothing lies beyond its support. With the seasons as horses, nothing cannot be set in motion; with Yin-Yang guiding their course, one is equipped to respond to the myriad things.

The great person follows the proper way of Heaven and Earth and guides the movement of Yin-Yang, traveling through boundless realms and wandering along the infinite Dao. Is this not expansive and unhindered? Thus, they move swiftly without being shaken, travel far without growing weary, and need not strain their limbs. Their keen ears and eyes are not worn down, yet they can observe all under Heaven. This is because they have grasped the essentials of the Dao and can behold boundless realms.

Once one has grasped the essentials of the Dao, the affairs of the eight directions seem to lie in one’s palm. Once one has understood the subtle workings of things, the transformations of the myriad beings seem to take place in one’s heart. Why rush from place to place and tire oneself in vain? Affairs under Heaven cannot be forced through subjective will, for forceful action often leads to failure. If one advances things in keeping with their natural tendencies, nothing remains unaccomplished. Nor can the transformations of the myriad things be suppressed one by one. Grasp their pivotal points and guide them back to the proper course, and however many their changes, their essentials can still be understood.

Therefore, the sage values cultivating the inner foundations rather than adorning outward details. They set their heart right within and cast off disordered skills without. They refine their spirit and clarify their heart; they restrain their cleverness and knowledge and cease actions that stray from the Dao. Thus, though they seem detached and practice Wuwei (non-action), nothing remains unaccomplished; though they seem not to govern, nothing is left unguided. “Non-action” means not rushing ahead to act presumptuously; “non-governance” means not altering things’ natural state; “nothing left unguided” means dealing with things in accordance with their own conditions. When things develop naturally according to their capacities, nothing fails to develop smoothly. When affairs are addressed once the conditions for governing them are in place, nothing remains poorly governed.

Laozi says: To govern the people by following the Great Dao is to respond to each event according to its circumstances and guide the changes of all things in step with their course. In this way, every change can be met, and all affairs can be brought into harmony. The sage governs the world by arranging people’s lives around the conditions that make things easier for them. The people are then naturally transformed, and all affairs proceed harmoniously.

The Great Dao is characterized by emptiness, simplicity, stillness, softness, and purity. These five qualities are the ways the Great Dao becomes manifest. Only by embodying these virtues can one experience the Dao’s formless and imageless source.

Emptiness is the dwelling place of the Great Dao; simplicity is its nature; stillness is its clear mirror; softness is its function—that is, its ability to reach all things. The Great Dao takes return as its constant principle. The world commonly prizes purposeful action, while the Great Dao uses Wuwei (non-action). The soft can become the foundation of the hard, and the weak the foundation of the strong. When softness and weakness accumulate to a certain point, they can give rise to strength. Purity and simplicity are the root of the Great Dao.

“Empty” means that the mind carries no distracting thoughts; “simple” means that the heart is free of burdens. Having no cravings or desires is emptiness brought to its utmost; having no favoritism or aversion is simplicity brought to its utmost; remaining focused and unwavering is stillness brought to its utmost; keeping free of entanglement with external things is purity brought to its utmost; feeling neither sorrow nor joy is De (Virtue/Power) brought to its utmost. This explains the five qualities of the Great Dao.

When a perfected person—someone whose cultivation has reached the highest level—governs the world, they set aside self-reliant cleverness and do not use cunning to disguise their wisdom. They remove decorative eloquence and preserve an unadorned nature. Following the Great Dao, they cast aside deluded scheming and keep themselves empty and clear. They stand alongside the people on impartial and just ground, without selfish motives. They restrain their own convictions, lessen their desires, reject temptation and covetousness, stop pursuing status and pleasure, and let go of excessive deliberation.

By restraining what one clings to, one gains discernment; by seeking less, one finds it easier to attain what is needed. If the mind can remain focused, it can master how to respond to all things and affairs. Simplicity makes the subtle easier to see; few desires make it easier to manage many affairs.

Therefore, only by using the inner root to govern external affairs can nothing be neglected. When the inner is firmly grasped, the outer can be governed. Here, “the center” means the ruler in the context of governing a state, and the mind in the context of personal cultivation. When the ruler is wise, the state is secure; when the mind is upright, the person is well governed in body and mind. Thus, by governing the outer through the inner, there is no matter that cannot be handled. But if one lets external things control the mind, one’s circumstances may alternate between ease and difficulty. Understanding both the inner and the outer makes it possible to act with fewer mistakes.

Peace in the five organs, calm thought, strong sinews and bones, and keen hearing and sight all result from holding fast to the inner root.

The Great Dao is broad and level, and never far from oneself. If one goes far away to seek it, one must eventually return. Yet those who travel far in vain may lose their way; people often do not realize that they can seek close at hand, within themselves.

Laozi says: The sage does not focus on governing others, but values cultivating himself; he does not prize power and status, but values inward contentment. When he is inwardly content, the people of the world will recognize him. Someone who has not yet cultivated himself can hardly govern others without coercion, or occupy a high position without looking down on them. The key to not looking down on others is inward contentment. When a person is content, others can readily understand and appreciate what he himself loves. To understand the feelings of others by attending to one’s own genuine feelings: this is contentment. In this way, I can understand the feelings and reasons of all the people under Heaven.

Happiness should not rest on wealth and rank, but should come from inner peace. Only by avoiding arrogance can one retain peace and happiness while surrounded by wealth and status. To value oneself and regard worldly fame and profit lightly is to draw near the Dao. One who has attained the Dao may be insignificant as an individual, yet can be in accord with all under Heaven; thus his own worth becomes vast. One who has lost the Dao may possess all under Heaven, yet have nowhere to dwell; the world then seems narrow.

Thus it is said: “Attain the utmost emptiness; hold firmly to deep stillness. As all things grow together, I observe how they return to their root.” All things arise from emptiness and stillness, and in the end return to their root. Returning to the root is stillness; stillness is a return to one’s original nature. All things move through cycles, and there is no true end.

The Dao molds all things and runs through their beginnings and endings, yet has no fixed form. It is still and unmoving, yet vast, deep, and unfathomable. The Dao is like a great furnace, shaping all things: at first there is no form, in the middle all things appear, and in the end they return to formlessness. Who can know its limits? It abides in a state of undifferentiated unity, mysterious and impossible to fathom. It is deep and boundless; one cannot say that there is an outer edge beyond it. It is fine as the tiniest hair, yet one cannot say it can be divided further within. It has no fixed spatial bounds: its immensity cannot be found outside it, and its minuteness cannot be grasped within. It is the source of both being and nonbeing. Call it nonbeing, and it can bring forth all things; call it being, and no fixed trace of it can be seen. It is the subtlety of Wuwei (non-action) and the mystery behind the generation of all things.

The True Person, one who embodies and follows the Dao, takes emptiness, simplicity, purity, gentleness, naturalness, and plainness as his foundation, remaining unmixed with external things. His De (Virtue/Power) accords with the Way of Heaven and Earth, and so he is called a True Person. He is one with emptiness and his De accords with Heaven and Earth. The True Person values cultivating himself and regards governing others lightly. From the human point of view, the world is vast; from the point of view of the Dao, the world is small. Viewed from afar, governing others matters less than cultivating oneself; viewed up close, self-cultivation is the foundation.

The True Person does not let external things disturb his inner peace, nor let desires agitate his nature. When his mind is not moved by external things, his feelings and nature are naturally not ruled by desire. He conceals his name, advances or withdraws as the times change, and lives among ordinary people without being noticed. This is to remain deeply hidden. When the world is orderly, he withdraws into silence; when it is in turmoil, he diligently cultivates himself. He acts without relying on his achievements, works without boasting, and understands without showing off. This is “acting through non-action, attending to affairs without making them a burden, and knowing without claiming to know.”

The True Person keeps the Way of Heaven in his heart and follows the changes of Yin-Yang. He breathes in and out, expelling stale Qi (vital energy) and taking in fresh Qi; he follows Yin-Yang as it opens and closes, responds to the expansion and contraction of hardness and softness, and advances or withdraws with the seasons of Heaven and Earth. His breathing follows its natural rhythm; his extension and contraction are timely, his movement and stillness measured, and his bending and stretching suited to the moment.

He does not cling to happiness or suffering, nor let joy and anger rule him. He sees all things as joined in an undivided whole and does not stubbornly pronounce them right or wrong. Worry and joy do not lodge in his heart, and happiness and anger do not show on his face. In every situation he follows what is true and fitting. This is “mysterious sameness”: being joined with all things in an undivided whole.

When the body is harmed by severe cold or heat, dryness or dampness, the physical form deteriorates and the spirit becomes blocked. When the spirit is troubled by joy, anger, thought, and worry, the spirit may be exhausted while the body remains for a time. With cold, heat, dryness, and dampness assaulting from without, and joy, anger, worry, and thought disturbing from within, the spirit is on the verge of dispersing. How long can the body endure when it is left behind alone? The True Person therefore cultivates his nature, allowing spirit and body to support one another so that they may reach a good beginning and end. He has no disordered dreams in sleep and no worries upon waking. Knowing that an imbalance of Yin-Yang harms vital Qi, he lets go of fixed emotional responses and nurtures a calm, quiet nature. Spirit and body sustain one another, and worries and disturbing dreams can no longer intrude.

Confucius asked Laozi for guidance on the Dao. Laozi said: “Straighten your body and focus your gaze, and the calm Qi you were born with will come. When the body is upright, the limbs naturally settle; when the mind is still, harmful thoughts cannot disturb it. Look at things with undivided attention, and whatever you encounter will reveal its true nature. Put an end to scattered thoughts, and the harmony of Heaven will come of its own accord.

“Gather your mind and set your conduct in order, and your spirit will come to rest. De will become your bearing, and the Dao your dwelling. Do not devise clever schemes; simply keep to ordinary ways. Then your spirit will respond to everything, De will embrace everything, and the Dao will be present everywhere.

“Let your gaze be as clear as that of a newborn calf, asking nothing about where things come from. This means concentrating your vital energy and reaching a state of softness, like a calf that seeks nourishment only from its mother and has no other worries.

“To be like a withered tree in outward form and dead ash within does not mean truly losing awareness. It means forgetting attachment to body and thoughts, and no longer being led by them. Is one really a withered tree or dead ash? In truth, awareness remains; the mind is simply not allowed to stray. Thus one can remain at ease, self-possessed, open, and free. Without private schemes, one can still see clearly in every direction. Is this not a kind of ‘unknowing’ that is free from the constraints of discrimination?

“What is called ‘form without form’ and ‘mind without mind’ cannot be described by outward appearance or found in any fixed place. It is vast and boundless, beyond the reach of calculation, yet it can extend in every direction. This is called true knowing.”

Laozi says: Those who follow the course of things act in step with change. Change arises from the conditions of the time, and those who understand those conditions do not cling to a single, unchanging way of acting. When something arises, respond to it; let the response suit the circumstances at that moment. What matters is knowing how to seize the right moment. How could there be a way that never changes?

Thus, once the Dao can be explained in words, it is no longer the constant, unchanging Dao. Once a name can be stated clearly, it is no longer a constant, unchanging name. One should respond to the conditions of the time. How could there be a fixed, unchanging method? Books are made of words, and words come from wisdom. If wisdom cannot grasp change, what is said in books cannot represent the constant Dao. Here, “books” refers to the Odes, the Documents, the Rites, and the Music; “words” refers to the sayings of ancient kings and sages. These texts and sayings were all offered in response to particular circumstances. Like straw dogs cast aside after a sacrifice, they cannot be taken as an eternal, unchanging Dao.

A name that can be spoken is not the same as the true Dao recorded in books. Words written on bamboo slips or plain silk, or carved into metal or stone, are only names that can be used to refer to things. Once a name is made, it may be true or false. A name written down, then, is not necessarily true, nor does it necessarily show things as they really are. Hearing too much can lead to difficulty; it is better to keep the mind centered. Even extensive learning and a powerful memory have their limits, while holding to the root requires no strain.

Abandon contrived learning, and worries will lessen. If people stop proclaiming their own sagacity and set aside clever schemes, the people will gain a hundredfold. Put an end to practices that stray from the right path, and discard self-promotion and rigid attachment. Understand that all things should return to the same source, and a hundredfold benefit will follow.

At birth, people are naturally still; this is the nature given to them by Heaven. When they are stirred into action by things outside them, this is desire arising within their nature. When an external thing arrives and they respond to it, this is the activity of the mind. When the mind comes into contact with external things, likes and dislikes arise. Once these have formed, the mind pursues things outward and can no longer turn back to observe itself; the natural order given by Heaven then disappears. Nature is still, but desire grows restless. When external things arrive, harm follows. The mind thus gives rise to trouble, and desire disrupts what is genuine. Once likes and dislikes arise, gain and loss follow. If people cannot turn inward and reflect on their nature, they will ultimately harm themselves.

For this reason, the sage does not replace nature with human contrivance. Outwardly, he responds to the changes in things; inwardly, he does not lose what is genuine. Those who understand the Great Dao return to stillness; those who follow the Dao are still within. Those who pursue external things ultimately return to Wuwei (non-action), refraining from forced or unwarranted action. By not clinging to external things, one can practice Wuwei.

Nourish the mind with calm simplicity and harmonize the spirit through emptiness and stillness; then one can enter a state beyond all constraint. If the mind is not still, it cannot bring forth activity; if the spirit is not quiet, it cannot respond to things. When a response arises, it appears from this state beyond constraint. Those who follow the way of Heaven walk with the Dao; that is, they hold to emptiness and stillness. Those who follow worldly customs associate with the world; that is, they attach themselves to fame and power.

Therefore, the sage does not let affairs disturb his nature or desires unsettle what is innate. He does not scheme, yet handles things well; he does not speak much, yet earns people’s trust. This is like the way of Heaven: it has no private interests, yet accords with the turning of the four seasons. Without exerting thought, it receives; without deliberate action, it accomplishes. What is gained does not come from laborious calculation, and what is accomplished does not come from forcing things to happen.

Therefore, when the sage occupies a high position, the people do not feel burdened by him; when he stands before them, they are not hindered by him. The people of the world gather around him, and the wicked stand in awe of him, because he does not contend with the myriad things. Thus no one dares contend with him. His utmost De (Virtue/Power) causes the wicked to decline and disappear into hiding. The people support him without feeling burdened, and no one in the world dares vie with him.

Laozi said: When people indulge their desires, they lose their original nature, and their conduct often strays from the right path. Govern a state in this condition, and the state will fall into disorder; cultivate oneself in this way, and body and mind will suffer harm. The harms caused by desire are enough to bring down a state and ruin a person, and retribution comes swiftly, like an echo answering a sound. Is this not something to be wary of?

Without understanding the Dao (the Way), one cannot return to one’s original nature; without understanding the underlying principles of things, one cannot maintain inner stillness. Those who do not understand the principles or grasp the true state of things cannot return to their roots and simplicity. Human nature is originally free of wrongful thoughts and defilement. Yet when people remain immersed in external things for a long time, their nature is easily altered. Once altered, they forget their roots and mistake habits acquired later for their original nature. People are originally still and unaware; they become active only when stirred by external things. Desire harms their true nature, while decline obscures the right path. Those who are confused do not notice this, and take their altered state to be their nature. If they never change this view throughout their lives, it is truly lamentable.

Water is clear by nature, but mud, sand, and stones make it turbid. Human nature is peaceful, but cravings and desires damage it. Only the sage can cast off the burdens of external things and turn inward to cultivate the self.

Thus the sage does not use cleverness to control external things, nor let desire disturb the mind’s peace. In happiness, the sage does not rejoice excessively; in sorrow, the sage does not grieve excessively. To treat happiness as something to revel in and indulge to the utmost is to make it turn into sorrow. To cling to sorrow as sorrow is to let it linger without end. The sage can therefore occupy a high position without danger and live in security without falling into ruin. Preserving oneself through a mind that is empty, still, and clear, what is there to worry about?

When they hear beneficial words and sound methods, even foolish people know to approve of them. When they hear of the sage’s noble virtue, even those of poor character admire it. If even the foolish know to aspire to it, how much more so those of virtue? Yet many approve, and few truly put it into practice; many admire, and few truly follow the example. Thousands upon thousands appreciate and admire, but those willing to devote themselves to cultivation are few indeed. The reason is that people are constrained by external things and worldly concerns: they crave flavors and are bound by fame and profit.

So Laozi said: “I practice Wuwei (non-action), and the people transform themselves naturally; I do not meddle, and the people grow prosperous naturally; I cherish stillness, and the people become upright naturally; I have no desire for gain, and the people become simple and sincere naturally.” This means that when a ruler above puts these four principles into practice, the people below are transformed by his example.

Stillness is the highest state of virtue; weakness and softness are the way the Dao operates; emptiness, calm, and joy are the source of all things. When these three are put into practice, they return to the formless. The formless is what is called “the One.” “The One” refers to a state free of selfishness and in harmony with all under Heaven. It has no fixed form, yet moves throughout the world, extending everywhere among the myriad things without end. It bestows its kindness without deliberate effort and puts the Dao to work without strain. Its kindness cannot be seen as any particular gift, and it has no mind that clings to toil. The Dao cannot be seen or heard; it is so subtle that it has no sound. How, then, could it be perceived with the eyes or ears?

Forms arise from the formless; the Five Tones emerge from silence; the Five Flavors take shape from what has no flavor; the Five Colors appear from what has no color. Thus being arises from nonbeing, and fullness arises from emptiness. There are no more than five basic kinds of sound, yet the variations of the Five Tones cannot be exhausted by listening. There are no more than five basic flavors, yet the variations of the Five Flavors cannot be exhausted by tasting. There are no more than five basic colors, yet the variations of the Five Colors cannot be exhausted by sight. Form, sound, color, and flavor do not exist of themselves from nowhere. If we trace them back to their basic kinds, each has no more than five. But as these five kinds change without cease, they may lose their proper measure and develop into excessive extravagance, beyond the reach of ordinary hearing, sight, and observation.

Music takes the note gong as its foundation, from which the Five Tones are formed. Sweetness is the foundation of flavor, from which the Five Flavors are established. White is the foundation of color, from which the Five Colors appear. The Dao takes “the One” as its foundation, from which the myriad things arise. All of this gives primacy to “the One.” The myriad things preserve their normal state by attaining “the One”; when people attain their roots, their virtue shines brightly. The Dao connects the myriad things as one, and through this they flourish and shine. Thus the principle of “the One” applies throughout the world and is the same everywhere. Those who understand “the One” and see clearly into Heaven and Earth can recognize the source of Heaven and Earth’s transformations, as well as the nature and condition of the myriad things.

Those who embody the Dao are whole, honest, and simple, and may even seem somewhat dull. When they appear among ordinary people, they are deep and substantial, as though muddied and unclear. They can gradually clear what is turbid and gradually fill what is empty and still. Their minds are calm, detached, and vast, like a boundless ocean; they are also free and drifting like floating clouds, with no known destination. They seem not to exist, yet they do; they seem to disappear, yet they can appear. These words all serve as metaphors for the state of those who embody the Dao.

Laozi says: The common root of all things appears through a single opening; the source of all affairs also issues from a single gate. In the end, all things and affairs come from the Gate of the Many Mysteries—that is, the mysterious source of the Dao. So the sage follows a guiding principle and does not alter the original nature or ordinary patterns of things. The sage acts as one would when taking a measure or following a straightedge, while adapting to circumstances and following their natural order.

The sage follows the source of the Great Dao and examines the nature of each thing. The sage would not send creatures of the land to live in the depths of the sea, nor make birds and beasts that nest in trees dwell instead in caves. This is not altering the habits things already have. To let each thing find its proper place, so that all can benefit by following their own nature, is to adapt to circumstances and follow their natural order.

Joy and anger lead people away from the Dao; grief and sorrow damage De. Likes and dislikes are faults of the mind, while cravings and desires burden life. These are emotions and desires in which a person of true stature should not become absorbed. Great anger harms Yin Qi, and great joy depletes Yang Qi. Blocked breath clouds the spirit; fear can make a person lose their composure; grief and sorrow set the heart and spirit ablaze, allowing illness to build up. If people can rid themselves of these five emotional imbalances, they can unite with the spirits. Removing them is the most earnest and essential work of self-cultivation.

People know that they can refine minerals into elixirs in pursuit of longevity, yet do not understand that restraining desire and keeping calm preserve their inborn nature. If they also let joy and anger run unchecked, what use is alchemical practice? If they understand this principle and put it into practice, they can naturally unite with the spirits.

The spirits refer to an inner spirit that is clear and full. When a person is inwardly full, the five organs are at peace, thoughts are even, the ears and eyes are keen, and the sinews and bones are strong. To become inwardly full, one must embrace emptiness and keep the spirit undivided, allowing the spirit to rest and thoughts to grow calm. Then the ears and eyes become clear, and the sinews and bones strong. A person should also understand the natural order without going against it, and should not compete with external things. One can be strong without becoming exhausted, and use gentleness without lacking strength. In all things, do not go too far, but do not neglect what needs to be done. When desire is kept within bounds, one’s undertakings can proceed smoothly.

Nothing under Heaven is softer and weaker than water, yet water embodies the Dao. Here, water is used to illustrate the principle. Water stretches wide beyond all bounds and runs deep beyond measure; it flows endlessly, reaching farther than the eye can follow. It rises and falls, grows and diminishes, changing in ways that are hard to predict. In the sky it becomes rain and dew; on the earth it becomes pools that nourish all things. All things are born through it, and all affairs are brought to completion through it. It nourishes living beings everywhere without favoring any one thing. Its grace reaches even the smallest insects, and it asks for no repayment. It makes the world abundant without being used up, and benefits the people without diminishing itself.

The effects of water cannot be exhausted, yet it is so subtle that it is hard to grasp. Strike it and it is not hurt; pierce it and it is not harmed; cut it and it cannot be severed; burn it and no scorch mark remains. It flows with supple grace and cannot be worn away or scattered. It can penetrate metal and stone, and its power extends throughout the world. Though it has abundance to spare, it can also make up what is lacking, leaving all under Heaven free to draw on it. It bears all things without ranking one above another. It is neither partial nor deliberately benevolent, and its breadth is like that of Heaven and Earth. This is called the highest De.

Water can attain such De because it is gentle and nourishing. As the saying goes: “The softest thing under Heaven can govern the hardest; a force without form or substance can enter where there is no gap.” Among the Five Phases—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—water is complete in its De because it has attained the Dao and become one with it. Through the Dao, it helps the world; its De accords with the myriad kinds of things; its benevolence reaches the plants and trees; its righteousness is firm as metal and stone; its trustworthiness accords with the four seasons; and its wisdom changes without limit.

Thus, what is soft and weak is not easily broken, while what is hard and strong may break. When water flows, it has power, mighty and without rival. Spread out, it becomes rain and dew; gathered together, it becomes springs. It can be drawn on without being exhausted, and its giving has no bounds. Even when polluted, it can wash things clean without losing its own nature. Water’s De is vast, and accords perfectly with the Dao.

The formless is the root of all things; the soundless is the source of every sound. All things arise from the formless, and the five notes emerge from silence. Thus, the Dao, utterly empty and without form, remains unseen yet brings all things into being. The Dao without form or sound is the ancestor and source of all things.

The realized person, one who has attained the Dao, opens the inner spiritual chamber and accords with the transformations of nature. Holding profound De within, the realized person moves and changes with spiritual power. Thus, the unseen Dao is vast and boundless. Even without issuing commands, it can transform customs and ways of life; the key lies in inner cultivation and the influence of one’s conduct.

All things have their own places of origin, while the Dao alone keeps to their root. All affairs have their own points of departure, while the Dao alone keeps to their gate. Thus, the Dao can reach the infinite and extend to the boundless. It observes all things without confusion and responds to them without leaving a trace. When the mind holds to unity, it can reach outward to all things. The Dao’s transformations are hidden and profound, and its influence works upon things as if by magic. It responds to all things without any fixed method. Who can know where its limits lie?

Laozi says: Those who attain the Dao do not force their will, yet they are effective in what they do. Their minds are empty and still, and they respond to affairs appropriately. People whose will is gentle and yielding are mild and calm; they do not rush to seize what they want, nor do they show off their abilities in action. They are detached and practice Wuwei (non-action), yet act without missing the right moment. What is meant by “attainment” is accord with the Dao of Wuwei. The Dao of Wuwei means following what is appropriate to each thing and acting at precisely the right time.

Therefore, what is noble takes what is lowly as its root, and what is high takes what is low as its foundation. Dust gathers to form a mountain; waters flow together to form the sea. By relying on what is small, one can contain what is great; by taking one’s stand within, one can master what lies without. One can act gently yet remain strong, with enough strength to meet every challenge. By receiving external things with an open mind, one may seem to have no force, yet still bring affairs to a successful conclusion, and others will not dare to slight one. By adapting to change and seizing the right moment, nothing can harm oneself. When one’s actions accord with the Dao, how could external things cause harm?

If you wish to be strong, use gentleness to guard yourself. If you wish to be powerful, preserve yourself through weakness. When gentleness has accumulated to a certain point, it can become strength; when weakness has accumulated to a certain point, it can become power. By observing the direction in which things are gathering momentum, one can judge their rise or decline, survival or demise. Understanding strength and gentleness allows De to become complete; understanding survival and demise allows one’s own life to flourish.

Those who overpower people weaker than themselves may falter when they meet their equals. The truly strong are not easily defeated, and the weak should not be bullied: this is the way of gentleness. Gentleness can overcome those stronger than oneself, and its power cannot be measured. So the weak and yielding must not be dismissed.

For this reason, an army that exalts its strength is likely to perish; a tree that is too hard is likely to break; leather that is too stiff is likely to crack. Whatever seeks only hardness is often difficult to preserve. Teeth are harder than the tongue, yet they are destroyed before it. The difference between teeth and tongue reveals the principle of hardness and gentleness: what is hard is easily damaged, while what is gentle can endure.

Weakness is the pivot of life, while hardness belongs to the side of death. The course of events draws one thing after another along with it, and from this we can see the principles of life and death. Acting first can sometimes lead to hardship, while acting later may bring success. By remaining behind, one is less likely to be controlled.

Grasp the Dao, and one can respond to change. Acting first can give one control over what follows; acting later can also restrain what came before. In this way, one can take the initiative in affairs and avoid being controlled by others. This is how to grasp the mechanism of change. When acting first, others do not resist; when acting later, one can still meet the moment appropriately. To respond well whether first or last, and to act or be still in accord with nature, is to hold to the Dao and respond to change.

What is meant by “later” is adjusting one’s actions so that they accord with the moment. Moments change swiftly, leaving no room for hesitation: act too early and you go too far; act too late and you miss the opportunity. Every affair has its proper moment and its crucial point of success or failure. One must therefore judge the measure, wait for the moment, and find the middle way without making a mistake.

The sun and moon move on, and time does not stand still. The sage does not prize a jade disc a foot long, but values a moment of time an inch long, because opportunities are hard to find and easy to miss. So the sage acts in accordance with the times and builds achievements on the conditions already at hand. The sage does not regard the accumulation of treasures as most important, but instead values preserving the Great Dao.

Hold to the Dao of stillness and purity, remain true to the quality of gentleness and weakness, and respond to change in accordance with the natural order. Usually act later rather than rushing ahead. Rely on gentleness and tranquility, and handle affairs with composure and calm. Achievements built in this way are deep-rooted and lasting, and others find it hard to rival them. Therefore, by understanding stillness and purity and holding to gentleness and weakness, one can overcome the hard and strong forces of the world. The key is not to contend with others.

Laozi says: When cunning and calculation lodge in the heart, the innate nature, clear and pure, is no longer pure. If clever schemes and stratagems are never set aside, the mysterious Great Dao grows ever more distant. If a person’s spiritual virtue is not fully embodied within them, how can they grasp the Great Dao that endures through time? When the body and mind closest to oneself have already been lost, one is all the more distant from others. If there is no thought of harming anyone, one can pass even beside a hungry tiger; one will not invite disaster even when facing a violent person.

Those who experience the Great Dao are at ease and do not fall into hardship. Those who truly understand the way of governing can accomplish things throughout their lives. Acting solely through calculation and political maneuvering brings exhaustion without results. Governing with harsh laws and punishments is not the work of a true ruler. Whipping horses again and again cannot carry a carriage far. Excessive punishment breeds resentment among the people; too much whipping makes horses flee. When likes and dislikes multiply, troubles follow one after another. This is the way of nature.

Thus, the ancient kings established laws not by inventing them out of nothing, but by responding to circumstances already at hand. They set up prohibitions and punishments not arbitrarily, but in accordance with guiding principles. This means that governance cannot rely solely on executions and punishment: it should eliminate the harmful conduct that causes the people to suffer, using minor penalties to prompt greater caution. This, too, is a way of protecting ordinary people. To follow the natural course of things is to think on a grand scale; to force things into being is to think small. When the roots are kept secure, governance is stable. Reckless interference often leads to failure.

When the Great Yu controlled the floods, the people were suffering under the waters and could no longer bear the disaster. He followed the contours of the land to clear the river channels and cut through obstructions, helping the people escape danger and freeing them from floods. Yu’s achievements were great because he was skilled at following the natural course of events. Shang Yang, by contrast, created new laws and changed the old system: those who obeyed the new laws were rewarded, and those who broke them were executed. More than seven hundred people were killed in a single day, and the Wei River seemed to run red. Later, Shang Yang himself was torn apart by chariots. This approach caused great harm for little gain. It appeared to uphold the law, but in fact it was unstable; forced action ultimately failed.

Relying only on the ears and eyes to hear and see tires the spirit, while judgment may still be unclear. Governing through calculation and deliberation exhausts one’s efforts without achieving results. If the ears, eyes, and mind are all spent, how can one be called truly discerning? To hear clearly without deliberately listening, to see clearly without deliberately looking, to act without scheming, and to accomplish things without laborious thought: this is the state the True Person cherishes.

It is difficult to achieve sound governance by relying on one person’s ability alone. One person’s capacity may not even suffice to manage a household on three mu of land. When too many tasks are undertaken, one’s strength is spread thin and it becomes difficult to attend to everything. If one follows the order of things and responds to the natural workings of Heaven and Earth, even governing the whole realm can be done in harmony. By following what suits each thing and measuring one’s own capacity, one can bring balance even to the vastness of Heaven and Earth, and do one’s utmost to govern the many things of the world in full.

When listening to people’s opinions, one can easily be misled by praise and blame, or swayed by likes and dislikes. The eyes, meanwhile, are easily captivated by brilliant colors. Ritual and law cannot restrain affection and aversion; only sincerity can move people far away. Words and formalities cannot prevent subtle deviations; only a clear inner mind can perceive what is minute.

Among weapons, none is more fearsome than intention; the Moye, an ancient sword, comes next. Among calamities, none is greater than the changes of Yin and Yang; drums and weapons are minor matters. The “great bandit” spoken of here lies hidden deep in the human heart, leaving no outward trace. The “middle bandit” hides in the mountains and forests, while the “small bandit” lurks among the people. The five kinds of weapons, a general term for common ancient arms, are merely the outermost branches of the Dao. The “bandit of Yin and Yang” refers to desires, affections, and aversions between men and women. When people pursue gain relentlessly, their thoughts are pulled along by emotion, and harm or even killing may arise from their choices. Thus, great calamities lie hidden within the heart, while lesser ones appear among the people. Those who have attained the Dao carefully cultivate their inner selves and so restrain their outward conduct.

It is therefore said that the more cunning and clever schemes the people possess, the more ingenious objects flourish; the more intricate the laws, the more thieves there are. Abandoning those burdensome schemes and adopting quietude and Wuwei (non-action) prevents calamities from arising, whether from Heaven or from human beings. Governing a state through cunning and political maneuvering brings it harm; governing without them is a blessing and a virtue for the state. Those who have attained the Dao see excessive cleverness as a source of calamity, while worldly people regard cleverness as a virtue. Misused, it invites disaster; when not overused, it brings good fortune.

The formless is vast, while the formed is small. The formless is abundant, while the formed is scarce. The power of the formless is strong, while that of the formed is weak. The formless root is full, while its visible expression is insubstantial. Wherever there is greatness, there is also smallness; wherever there is abundance, there is also scarcity. Once scarcity exists, concrete forms appear limited. What has no distinctions of size or quantity is not confined by form, and can therefore be called vast. The “formed” refers to things that have taken shape and can be identified. The myriad things arise from the formless, whose source is difficult to name. Only after concrete things take shape do they receive names. The formless is the beginning of the myriad things; concrete things are vessels that have taken shape. The beginning is like uncarved simplicity; when simplicity divides, it becomes the various vessels. Where there is form, there is sound; where there is no form, there is silence. Form arises from the formless, so the formless is the beginning of form.

The text goes on to explain that “the named” and “the nameless” carry different meanings. At times, “the named” refers to wealth, honor, and renown, while “the nameless” refers to poverty, low status, and obscurity. At other times, “the named” means vigorous and manifest, while “the nameless” means yielding and hidden. This does not mean that vigor and prominence must accord with the Dao, or that yielding and obscurity must be without a name. It means that prominence and concealment, brightness and darkness, can shift with circumstances, and that one should not cling to rank or reputation. To have more than enough means to accomplish something without boasting of it; to have too little means to occupy no high position and willingly remain low. To vaunt one’s own name is not true wisdom, and deliberately displaying humility is not necessarily true foolishness. Good deeds bring a good name; without achievement, there is no name. The Dao does not respond to anything out of nothing: renown arises from namelessness, which is like the root of what is named.

Being and nonbeing give rise to one another; difficulty and ease bring each other about. Concrete “being” does not arise independently but comes forth from “nonbeing.” Difficulty does not form on its own but accumulates from what is easy. Knowing that formed things cannot exist independently, one should hold to the root and bring concrete things to completion. Knowing that difficulty accumulates from what is easy, one should begin by dealing with what is easy. Nothing in the world operates in isolation; things depend on one another. Thus, the sage grasps the Great Dao and keeps the mind empty, quiet, and subtle, thereby cultivating De (Virtue/Power). By forgetting clever schemes, the mind can become clear.

Where there is the Dao, there is De; where there is De, things can be accomplished; where there is achievement, a name follows. After a name arises, one returns to the Great Dao. By cultivating De, achievement and renown arise naturally, but they do not belong to oneself; they take shape on their own and ultimately return to the Dao. In this way, achievements and renown endure, and one has few failings throughout life. Lords and princes usually have achievements and renown, while the orphaned and widowed usually do not. Yet even when the sage establishes achievements, they call themselves orphaned and widowed, thereby returning to the root. Only the sage can establish achievements without claiming them and gain renown without boasting of it. When achievements are complete but not appropriated, they benefit all things without drawing attention to themselves. When one does not cling to renown, one’s influence endures without limit.

In ancient times, the people were simple and unknowing. Though grown to adulthood, they were like children: they did not distinguish east from west, nor did they make comparisons or calculations. Their expressions did not depart from their nature; they remained natural and calm. Their words were not deliberately polished, and their actions did not seek to impress. Every movement accorded with the Dao. They wore clothes only for warmth, without splendid adornment. Their weapons were blunt and unsharpened; they did not hone instruments of violence. Their movements were slow and steady, and their gaze was hazy, like that of an infant looking at the world. The people dug wells for water and tilled fields for food. Beyond food and clothing, they had no excess desires. They did not deliberately show kindness in order to seek repayment, nor did they demand gratitude from others. People did not compare one another’s strengths and weaknesses. Within and without, they sought neither repayment nor praise, and in secret they accorded with the Great Dao and the principles of Heaven.

When customs follow nature, things are easy to accomplish. There is no need to issue commands by force; customs will become orderly on their own. When people have few desires, affairs naturally become simple. Using falsehood and affectation to deceive the world, or difficult and contrived behavior to mislead the people, is not how a sage teaches them. Deceitful conduct and deliberate affectation only confuse the world and its people; the sage does not act this way.

This completes Volume One of the Wenzi.

Volume Two of the Wenzi

Commentary by Master Moxi

Essence and Sincerity

“Essence” means clear discernment, while “sincerity” means what is genuine and trustworthy. Sincerity is the nature Heaven bestows on all things; essence is the capacity for discernment that human beings possess. One should set one’s aims with a sincere heart and use clear discernment to distinguish matters. Unless one is the most sincere person under Heaven, how can one fully understand the nature of all things and accord with the Virtue of Heaven and Earth? This is why it is said that when one’s mind is not single-minded and one’s attitude is not sincere, one cannot move others.

Laozi said: Heaven reveals its height, Earth its great depth. The sun and moon shine, the stars gleam, and Yin-Yang harmonize. None of this is deliberately arranged by anyone; it is the result of Wuwei (non-action), of following things as they are, without forcing them. Nor does it arise from any desire.

When a ruler corrects his own conduct, all things develop according to their own nature. When he cultivates himself, the people are transformed by his example, as if by a wondrous power. No teaching that is carried out without words can compare with it.

Yin-Yang and the four seasons do not directly create the myriad things. Rain and dew fall in due season, without any intention to nourish plants and trees. Yet when the Qi of the spirits meets and Yin-Yang harmonizes, the myriad things come forth. When Heaven and Earth are harmonious and at peace, the Qi of the spirits converges and descends—not through deliberate arrangement. If the seasons do not proceed in keeping with their proper times, the myriad things cannot grow well.

The Dao is to gather Jing and Qi within the heart and let Shen dwell there, maintaining quiet simplicity, harmony, and ease. The heart is open and without trace, still and soundless. In other words, the sage holds an intention aligned with the Way of Heaven and nurtures the Great Dao through De. Shen is held within, while outwardly the sage shows no attachment to people or things. With no sign to discern, how could any trace or sound appear?

The ideal state of governance is one in which government offices are so quiet they seem to have no affairs, and the court so peaceful it seems no one is busy. There are no harsh edicts and no flattering or treacherous officials. No one withdraws from court because their worth has gone unrecognized, and no worthy person is overlooked in the countryside. There are no burdensome corvée duties or unjust punishments. The people are called to labor at the proper times, and the law is enforced without excess.

All under Heaven admire the ruler’s De and follow his intentions. Distant foreign lands and regions with different customs do not hesitate to travel through many interpreters in order to submit. When the ruler accords with the Dao, the people rely on his De. His influence reaches in every direction and extends to lands with different customs. This does not mean the ruler visits the people from house to house; it means extending a sincere heart throughout the world.

Therefore, rewarding the good and punishing violence is how one brings order to government. For edicts to be carried out in practice, inner sincerity is essential. Even clear edicts cannot enforce themselves: sincerity, discernment, and trustworthiness are also required. Without discernment and trust, it is impossible to reward the good and punish evil. If rulers continually teach the people through the Great Dao and the people still do not obey, it shows that their sincerity has not yet been fully expressed.

For example, when Yu attacked the Youmiao, an ancient tribal people, they refused to submit, so Yu withdrew his troops. Later, he performed music and dance, carrying a shield and dancing with feather ornaments, and the Youmiao finally submitted. This was the effect of transformation through sincere intent.

Laozi says: Heaven sets the sun in place so that it gives light; arrays the stars, orders the seasons, and harmonizes Yin-Yang. By day, sunlight shines upon all things; by night, they rest and recover. The wind dries them, and rain and dew moisten them. When all things grow, people cannot see how Heaven arranges and nourishes them, yet they all flourish. When all things decline and die, people likewise cannot see how Heaven takes away their vitality, yet they all move toward extinction. This is called the divine and numinous power: the subtle, unseen force at work in the natural order.

The Way of Heaven—the laws governing the natural order—moves quietly and is hard to explain in words. When all things have reached the time for life, they must be born; when they have reached the time for death, they must die. Those meant to live live, and those meant to die die, all in accord with the seasons. Living beings need not thank the Way of Heaven, nor need the dead resent it. This is simply following what is natural. This is what is called the divine and numinous power.

Thus, the sage takes the Way of Heaven as his model. He brings forth good fortune, yet people cannot see where it comes from; he removes calamities, yet people cannot see how they are removed. One may search for the causes and find no trace, yet careful observation shows that results have indeed come about. Earlier, it was said that Heaven models itself on the Dao; here, it is said that the sage models himself on Heaven. Heaven gives life and brings death, just as a ruler rewards and punishes. To bring forth good fortune is to appoint the worthy; to remove calamities is to get rid of the wicked. The wicked deserve punishment, and the worthy deserve appointment. The worthy reveal their own usefulness; I do not deliberately promote them. The violent bring punishment upon themselves through their evil deeds; I do not deliberately bring them to ruin. Thus, I do not create good fortune, nor do I bring calamity. People cannot see where these things come from or discern their traces.

Measured by a single day, the results may seem insufficient; measured over a year, there will be a harvest. The sage does not plan only for small, immediate matters. For a time, his efforts may appear to achieve little, but in the long run they leave behind abundant results.

When the sage is quiet and does not speak, all under Heaven is peaceful and undisturbed. Once he speaks, he can bring about great change throughout the world. This is because he transforms all things by means of the heart of Heaven. When the sage remains still, all under Heaven is free of turmoil; when he acts, all things turn toward him. King Gaozong of Shang once went three years without speaking lightly. When at last he spoke, he did so with great care. This shows the importance of speaking cautiously.

The sage’s inner sincerity and purity shine forth from within, and his Qi moves Heaven. Then auspicious stars appear, along with yellow dragons and phoenixes; sweet springs well up, fine grain grows, rivers do not overflow, and the seas are not lashed by great waves. The sage understands the Great Dao and nourishes all things; only Virtue can move Heaven. Sincerity issues from within and reaches up to Heaven, so dragons and phoenixes gather, and rivers and seas grow clear. Without lucid and sincere Virtue, how could such auspicious signs appear?

If one goes against the Way of Heaven and harms all things, the sun and moon may be obscured, the Five Planets may stray from their courses, and the seasons may fall out of order. Daylight may grow dim while night becomes bright; mountains may collapse, rivers may run dry, thunder may sound in winter, and frost may fall in summer. These signs show that Heaven and humanity respond to one another. The earlier passage described auspicious signs brought about by following the Way of Heaven; this one describes calamities brought about by opposing it. From this we can see that good fortune and calamity have no fixed path: people bring them upon themselves. Heaven and humanity are connected, and Qi of the same kind responds to itself without fail.

When a state is about to fall into decline, celestial signs change and the customs of the world become disordered. Rainbows appear, all things become entangled with one another, and vital essences clash. When disorderly Qi gains the upper hand, calamities follow; things become anomalous and ultimately bring about disaster. The sage therefore knows deeply that he is connected with all things. He remains cautious and diligent at all times and dares not slacken. He would rather follow Heaven’s will to bring peace to the people than treat it carelessly or with neglect.

Matters of the divine and numinous cannot be achieved through cunning schemes or obtained by force. The divine and numinous is upright; how could it admit falsehood? Without a sincere heart, one cannot bring about a response. How much less could one force such a response through sheer effort?

Thus, the great person’s Virtue accords with Heaven and Earth, his radiance with that of the sun and moon, his spiritual responsiveness with that of ghosts and spirits, and his reliability with the seasons. Only a great sage can understand the utmost Dao and accord with the heart of Heaven. His Virtue is therefore complete in every respect, his wisdom illuminates all things, his spiritual responsiveness never fails, and his reliability never misses its time. One who can do this may truly be called great.

The sage embraces the heart of Heaven, receives the Qi of Earth, and maintains emptiness, stillness, reserve, and calm. In this way, his heart and Qi communicate, and the Qi of Heaven and Earth mingle in harmony. Without understanding this state of emptiness, stillness, and calm, how could one attain such a realm?

The sage need not leave his hall to govern the four quarters. This is perhaps what is meant by wondrous transformation through teaching. He changes customs that run counter to the right way and turns the people toward goodness, so that they seem to change of their own accord, as if following their nature. The sage does not alter his principles because of differences in rank, nor does he change his true feelings because of distinctions between the Chinese and foreign peoples. Thus, without leaving his hall, he can transform people of different customs; without traveling far himself, he can receive envoys from distant lands who come to submit after passing through many interpreters. The sage’s Virtue transforms others so that their good deeds seem to arise from within themselves.

Laozi says: In conducting oneself, one should preserve one’s nature, hold fast to simplicity, and do oneself no harm. Understand the substance of the Dao, and bring one’s words and actions into accord with the principles of Heaven. Harm neither external things nor oneself. Even in times of crisis, remain attuned to the Way of Heaven, inwardly sincere and steadfast, and not turned aside. If one never departs from the root of the Dao, whatever one does can be brought to completion. Such a person regards life and death as one state and cannot be coerced or bullied by others.

To “never depart from the root of the Dao” means that the mind accords with the Dao, while the body rests at ease as all things change. Thus, wherever one goes, one can adapt; whatever one does, one can accomplish; and life and death no longer mark a distinction. How, then, could one be coerced by others? What is more, the Dao governs Heaven and Earth and embraces all things. It turns the transformations of creation and contains the most harmonious Qi. It has never truly died. The Dao takes Heaven as its model and Earth as its image. It holds Yin within and breathes out Yang, distributes the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), and encompasses all things. It moves on its own above the transformations of Heaven and Earth, and cycles endlessly beyond the flow of change. It has never been born; how, then, could it die?

When inner sincerity becomes manifest, it can reach and move the hearts of others. This is the Dao that cannot be passed on through words. What is meant here is that one cultivates sincerity within and transforms people and things outwardly. This Dao can be conveyed, but not through verbal instruction. When a sage occupies the highest position, the sage cherishes the Dao and speaks little, while extending grace to the people; thus the “teaching without words” is boundless. When ruler and minister are divided in mind, break their trust, and manipulate power, signs appear in the heavens, and the spiritual Qi responds in kind. This is how one can discern without words and transmit the Dao without speaking. The highest Dao is not expressed through words, and profound efficacy does not claim to be in control. Thus, when ruler and minister preserve one another, praise each other’s De, and their renown reaches Heaven while they secretly resonate with the spirits, this is what discernment and transmission without words can bring about.

To draw people from afar, one should meet them with Wuwei (non-action); to bring those nearby closer, one should not burden them with needless activity. Heaven is high and boundless; only through Wuwei can one reach it and receive a response. By refraining from arbitrary interference with those nearby, one can instead draw them close. Only those who keep going as if traveling by night can do this. “Traveling by night” is a metaphor for tireless diligence: even before reaching one’s destination, one does not stop, but keeps one’s inner spirit full and raises it up to Heaven.

Thus it is said, “Turn back the horses and use them to spread manure.” Here, “turn back” means to stop, while “horse” is a metaphor for the human mind. The mind is like a galloping horse, difficult to rein in. People often let the mind chase distant fame and profit in pursuit of personal glory. I am different: I stop the mind’s frantic pursuit and keep it empty and still, thereby cultivating myself. “The wheel tracks do not reach beyond distant lands” means that one may appear to sit motionless while the mind races far away. This is called “sitting while roaming.” To remain in obscurity without showing oneself is also called “sinking into the world.”

The Way of Heaven does not favor anyone with special closeness, nor does it single anyone out for rejection. Those with ability have a surplus; those lacking ability have a shortfall. The Way of Heaven is impartial: those with De receive its support, while those without De lose their ground. To think only of rejecting one side and choosing another is to fall into partiality. But rejecting evil conduct and drawing near to goodness accords with nature. Without desire, one feels content; with excessive desire, one feels deprived. Following the Way of Heaven brings good fortune; going against it brings misfortune. Only through impartiality and Wuwei does one refrain from claiming benefits and achievements as one’s own. For this reason, a state governed through clever schemes and stratagems is difficult to sustain for long. Only those who preserve the greatest harmony, align themselves with nature, and respond accordingly can do this.

Laozi says: The relationship between the Dao and De is like that between tanned hide and leather. They seem far apart, yet are close to one another; they seem close, yet appear estranged. Try to investigate them closely, and they cannot be grasped; observe them carefully, and you know they truly exist.

Drums made from tanned hide and leather sound in response when struck. The Dao and De nourish the body and mind; when put to use, they become effective. Their responses are endless, and their wondrous transformations have no bounds. This is why they are difficult to grasp through investigation, yet plainly present to careful observation.

Thus the sage’s mind is like a mirror: it does not anticipate things or pursue them. When things arrive, it reflects them truthfully, but does not retain their images in the mind. It reflects all things without omission. A mirror does not chase after things in search of brightness, yet it continually sees and responds to them. No image of a thing can hide from it, so what could be harmed by this?

To gain something often means to lose something else; what is lost may itself be a gain. Gain and loss do not make for a true and unchanging state. To have neither gain nor loss is to be truly “One”—the Daoist state of undivided unity. Thus, one who has reached “Great Harmony,” the state in which all things are harmonious and unified, has a mind hazy as if drunk, yet willingly rests within that state, as though never having left the source of the Dao. This is called “Great Communion,” being joined to the Great Dao.

Hold fast to the Great Dao and nurture harmonious Qi (vital energy). Forget the body and its burdens, as if having drunk a rich wine and willingly sunk into it, merging completely with all things. Such a person may be called one who has attained the Dao. Seemingly doing nothing, they nonetheless accomplish what needs to be done. This means that awakening to the Dao requires reaching a state free of contrivance and self-forgetting, like forgetting the body when drunk.

Laozi says: In ancient times, when the Yellow Emperor governed the world, he regulated the movements of the sun and moon, harmonized the Yin-Yang energies, set the seasons in order, calibrated musical pitches and calendrical numbers, and distinguished…

Laozi says: In ancient times, when the Yellow Emperor governed the realm, he brought the movements of the sun and moon into harmony, governed the Qi of Yin and Yang, set the seasons in their proper order, corrected the pitch system and the calendar, distinguished the duties of men and women, and clarified the hierarchy between those above and those below. He ensured that the strong did not oppress the weak and that the many did not bully the few. The people could preserve their lives and avoid an untimely death; the harvests came in their proper seasons, without famine. The officials were impartial and did not pursue private interests; harmony prevailed between those above and those below, without resentment. The laws and decrees were clear, not ambiguous, and those who served as aides acted fairly, without favoring personal connections. Farmers yielded to one another over field boundaries; no one picked up and kept things lost on the road; and merchants did not raise prices in advance at the market. Thus the sun, moon, and stars moved in their proper courses, winds and rains came at the right times, the five grains flourished, phoenixes flew through the courtyards, and qilin appeared in the countryside. This shows that the Yellow Emperor governed the realm through the Dao, and that the transforming influence of his De reached such a state.

When Fuxi, a legendary ruler of high antiquity, governed the realm, life was simple: people slept on stones and used ropes for mats. They followed the seasonal rhythms of harvesting in autumn and storing away in winter, lived amid the earth in accord with the workings of Heaven and Earth, and dwelled within the generative transformations of Yin and Yang. Where things had stagnated and become blocked, they opened a way through the disordered Qi. Where abuses had accumulated through violations of the natural order and harm to the people, they cleared them away and put a stop to them. The people were simple and unsophisticated. They could not tell east from west; their eyes were hazy, their steps slow. They were at ease without knowing why they wandered so freely, or where they had come from. They lived naturally, without knowing where they would go. Such was the state of the realm under Fuxi’s rule.

At that time, birds and beasts, insects and serpents, though equipped with claws, fangs, and poisonous stings, kept them restrained. Though they could poison and harm others, they had no intention of destroying living things. This was the result of the transformative influence of the highest De, which made such a state possible.

When the Yellow Emperor governed the realm, his understanding of the way of his ancestors was not yet fully clear. Yet he did not display his achievements or proclaim his fame. Instead, he quietly held to the Dao of the True Person and followed the original patterns of Heaven and Earth. In this way, Dao and De could reach up to Heaven, while cleverness and scheming faded away. “Grand Ancestor” refers to the Yellow Emperor’s forebears. Their people were simple, genuine, and true to their natural state. Though they accomplished good works, they did not regard themselves as virtuous; though they had a reputation, they did not deliberately publicize it. Thus it is said that they quietly held to the Dao of the True Person, cast aside the showy clamor of cleverness, and followed nature in communion with Heaven and Earth.

Laozi said: If the sky is unsettled, the sun and moon have no support; if the earth is unsettled, plants and trees cannot grow; if body and mind are not at peace, right and wrong cannot emerge. When the three powers of Heaven, Earth, and humanity are unsettled, all things lose their support. If people do not devote themselves to practice, gather in their thoughts, and listen inwardly and look within—drawing back their hearing and gaze from the outside to observe their inner selves—they cannot encounter the True Person, one who has reached the state of reality, or give rise to genuine wisdom.

Thus, the True Person comes first, and only afterward does true wisdom arise. If the principles you uphold are unclear, how can you know that what you call “knowing” is not true knowledge? If the teaching you follow is unclear, how can you recognize the Dao? What is called “knowing” does not mean truly understanding the Dao.

Accumulating kindness and giving generously, bringing the people joy and enabling them to live in peace and comfort—this is called benevolence. Establishing great achievements and making a fine name, honoring the distinctions between ruler and minister and setting the order of higher and lower, discerning degrees of closeness and distance, aiding states in danger of collapse and continuing lineages that have been cut off, and providing heirs for those without descendants—this is called righteousness. Build an undertaking through benevolence and maintain trust through righteousness, and people will all give their hearts to you, while every task will be accomplished. These are, in broad terms, ways to govern worldly affairs and establish royal or hegemonic power.

Close the body’s nine apertures, gather the mind, set aside cleverness and artifice, and return to a state free of knowledge and desire. Wander indistinctly beyond the dust of the world, and move freely within Wuwei (non-action) and non-interference. Nurture Yin Qi and breathe out and take in Yang Qi, living in harmony with all things—this is called De (Virtue/Power). Keep the mind quiet, respond outwardly to nature, store Jing (essence) and nurture one’s true nature, remain at ease through Wuwei, and free yourself from worldly turmoil. The Dao disperses and becomes De; when De fills out, it appears as benevolence and righteousness. Once benevolence and righteousness are established, the pure, unadorned nature of the Dao has already declined. The pure essence has been scattered, leaving only the dregs.

Laozi says: When the spirit strays outward, speech tends to become ornate; when De is unsettled, conduct easily becomes false. The truly pure state within is hidden and does not show itself, while words and actions are displayed outwardly. Such a person is bound to be driven by external things. As inner Jing and Qi dissipate, flowery speech arises on the outside. When the heart is pulled along by affairs, how can the body escape misfortune? Jing and Qi are gradually depleted, while outward activity has no end. Without a firm inner commitment, one is led outward by worldly customs. If one’s inner resolve is unsteady, one falls into difficulty; if one rushes ever outward, one is often troubled by upheaval.

Therefore, sages cultivate the Dao within and do not adorn themselves outwardly with benevolence and righteousness. They understand the proper uses of the nine apertures—the openings of the body, such as the ears, eyes, mouth, and nose—and the four limbs, and let the spirit rest in harmony. This is the state in which sages roam at ease. Within, sages hold fast to the true Dao; outwardly, they respond to what is appropriate in each situation. Their spirit is thus in harmony, able to roam through boundless realms.

Laozi says: When sages roam, their movements abide in utmost emptiness and stillness. Their minds and spirits roam through the vast, boundless void, racing beyond the limits of the mundane world and walking in a realm without gates. They hear sound without sound and behold forms without shape. They are not constrained by the world or bound by worldly feelings. When their movements abide in the utmost void, there is nowhere they cannot pass; when their minds and spirits roam through the Great Void, there is nothing they cannot contain. How could gates confine them? How could sight and hearing disturb or deceive them?

Thus, one who transforms the world through the state of a perfected person is not merely a worthy. Sages do not esteem the worthy’s efforts to correct worldly customs. Sages and worthies differ in their conduct, and their achievements are far apart, like the distinct duties of offering sacrifices and preparing food: the two must not be confused.

When people are constrained by worldly customs, their bodies are held in check and their spirits dissipate, so they are bound to become burdened. No one can occupy a place of honor and wealth without expending the mind and spirit. Once one accepts a stipend, one must worry over the duties one has taken on. If anything can bind me, it must be because my life is entrusted to something outside myself. Once I am controlled by external things, I no longer hold the power over my own life.

Laozi said: When a ruler’s thoughts are settled, his spirit does not race about in confusion within his chest, and his wisdom is not flaunted in every direction. If he is filled with benevolence and sincerity, wind and rain will arrive in season, and the five grains will grow in abundance. In spring, seeds are sown and growth begins; in summer, crops are nurtured; in autumn, they are harvested; in winter, they are stored. Each month, the work is inspected; at the proper times, it is assessed; and at year’s end, tribute is reported.

A ruler who follows the Dao does not exhaust himself with worry or display his cleverness. People from distant places naturally turn to him. Thus, he can accord with Heaven’s will and act according to the actual circumstances of all things. The people support him, and tribute flows without interruption. He cares for the people with impartiality and exercises authority without resorting to warnings or threats. His laws are clear and uncomplicated. He transforms the people through a subtle influence: his laws are lenient, his punishments light, and the prisons empty. Customs throughout the realm come into harmony, and people harbor no deceitful intentions. This is the benevolence of a sage.

To be impartial and free of self-interest, authoritative without being harsh, and to keep laws simple and punishments lenient, so that the people follow his teachings—this may be called reaching a subtle state. Thus, the regions are brought under one system of governance, and different customs follow common standards. This is how a sage governs the realm through benevolence.

If a ruler is greedy and takes without limit, ministers and subjects will compete for merit and refuse to yield. The people will suffer poverty, and rivalry and disputes will follow. Labor will be wasted without results, deceitful intentions will begin to grow, and thieves will become more numerous. When those above and below resent one another, government orders can no longer be carried out. None of the practices described above is a way for a sage to govern the realm. If a country is governed by such means, it will soon perish.

When water is muddy, fish rise to the surface to gasp for air; when government orders are harsh, the people rebel. If a ruler has many desires, the people become more deceitful. If he burdens them with too many affairs of state, they are left at a loss. If he demands too much, the people compete with one another. Trying to fix only the details while neglecting the root is like digging a channel in the hope of stopping water, or carrying firewood to put out a fire.

If you grasp the root to govern the branches, affairs can be kept simple and the realm made peaceful. If you seek order by neglecting the root and chasing after details, you will exhaust yourself while the realm falls into disorder. It is like cutting open a channel: the water surges ever more wildly. Add firewood to a fire, and the flames burn ever higher, until they can no longer be brought under control.

A sage governs with few interventions, and the realm is at peace. He seeks little, yet the people become prosperous. He does not deliberately bestow kindness, yet the people feel his benevolence. He says little, yet his government orders are trusted. He does not force things, yet matters are naturally set right. He does not act deliberately, yet things are accomplished. The sage accords with nature, guards the purest original nature, holds fast to the Great Dao, and practices sincerity. The people of the realm follow him, as an echo answers a sound and a shadow reflects a form. What the sage cultivates is the root. The highest form of governance is clear and simple, so all the people willingly turn to it, just as a sound produces an echo and a form casts a shadow; nothing fails to respond.

Laozi says: When the spirit is constantly dissipated outward and thoughts in the heart remain confused and unceasing, one cannot govern affairs well. If the body and spirit expend their strength on distant things, what is near at hand will be neglected. Seeking what lies beyond one’s proper place, and indulging desires without ever finding satisfaction, harms the spirit within and damages the body without.

Thus, one can know the world without leaving the door, and understand the Dao of Heaven—the patterns of nature’s unfolding—without peering out through the window. The farther one travels, the less one knows. This means that when the heart is sincere and undivided, Shen and Qi can accord with Heaven. By grasping the key to things and observing the world, one can see human feelings clearly; by using the xuanji, an ancient instrument for observing the heavens and discerning the movements of celestial bodies, to observe the great motions of the heavens, one can understand the Dao of Heaven.

Truthful words arise from the heart, and Jing and Qi then accord with Heaven. By holding to the principles at the root of what is near, one can see clearly what is far away; the more things one worries over, the less one truly understands.

Laozi says: All things naturally gravitate toward the warmth of winter sunlight and the cool shade of summer. No one drives them toward either extreme. This is the response that arises when the Way of nature reaches its finest subtlety: without being summoned, all things come of their own accord; without being driven away, they depart of their own accord. Its workings are deep and mysterious. No one can see who is directing them, yet its effects take shape naturally.

Those who are cold draw near the winter sun; those who are hot seek shelter beneath the cool shade of summer. A sage who governs the world should act in the same way. Yin and Yang have no private attachments, and the sage likewise harbors no partiality. Thus all things find their proper place, and people naturally turn to the sage. People do not come because the sage has summoned them, nor leave because the sage has sent them away. If governance must wait until something is seen before acting, or until an order is spoken before anything is done, it becomes difficult.

Gaoyao, the legendary worthy minister of high antiquity, could not speak, yet served as the chief judge, responsible for criminal cases; there was no abuse of punishment throughout the realm. Why, then, must speech be so highly valued? Shi Kuang, the blind musician of the Spring and Autumn period, served as grand administrator, yet the state of Jin had no disorder in its affairs. Why, then, must seeing with one’s own eyes be so highly valued? Orders conveyed without words and governance carried out without relying on sight: these are precisely the qualities that make a sage worthy of emulation. The people can be transformed without words, and those below do not impose punishments recklessly. Why, then, must everything depend on speech? One can govern without personally inspecting matters, and Jin was free of disorder in its affairs. Why, then, rely on seeing for oneself? Thus the sage need not wait until something is seen before taking action, nor issue verbal commands for every matter. This is what makes the sage a model for others.

The people are shaped by those above them not by listening to their words, but by following their example. In antiquity, people led by example and spoke little empty talk; in later ages, they often spoke without acting. So if a ruler delights in displays of valor, even without inciting the people to fight one another, calamities will multiply in the state. As this tendency grows, it will inevitably lead to disorder marked by robbery and killing. If a ruler is obsessed with women, even if no one speaks of it, the state will fall into confusion; over time, this will bring the calamity of unrestrained lust and sexual disorder. The people imitate their ruler as water flows downhill. One must therefore guard against these tendencies at their source and be careful even with the smallest signs. The calamity of Qinzhuang’s coercion and the disorder caused by Daji in the time of King Jie of Xia are examples of this.

The sage is therefore sincere within and clear in discernment, and makes likes and dislikes plain in outward words and conduct. Speech accords with what is felt within, and orders state their intent clearly. When there is no partiality within and no favoritism or aversion shown outwardly, words elicit a response as soon as they are spoken, and orders are carried out swiftly as soon as they are issued. Punishment alone cannot change customs, and killing alone cannot put a stop to wrongdoing. The people can be guided through De (Virtue/Power), but are difficult to govern through punishment alone. The most precious influence is the mysterious power of transformation. When sincerity reaches its utmost, it is called “spirit.” The power moved by such sincerity is like the Qi of spring, which brings all things to life, and the Qi of autumn, which causes them to wither. When it brings things to life, it is warm and gentle, as though all things receive new vitality in spring; when it brings things to an end, it is stern and orderly, as though all things meet their decline in autumn. It nourishes people without seeking repayment, and punishes them without provoking resentment. Whether it gives life or brings death, it does so because the one who acts has no selfish motive.

Thus the gentleman governs the people as an archer shoots: the arrow is at hand, while the target lies far away. Those who govern the people must carefully choose what they use to influence them. Governing the people is like archery: when the arrow is released, the archer hopes it will strike the target; yet when it reaches the mark, it may fall several inches from the bull’s-eye. A deviation of a hair’s breadth can lead to a result far removed from what was intended.

Laozi said: “Laws and regulations may be established, and rewards may be offered, yet customs and habits remain unchanged because people lack sincerity. Laws cannot truly put an end to the people’s conduct; only deep De can transform customs. Thus, by listening to the music of a place, one can understand its prevailing ways; by observing its music and dance, one can understand its customs; and by seeing its customs, one can know how well its instruction has taken effect. By discerning the pitch standards, one can understand the music; by discerning the music, one can understand government; by observing government, one can understand customs; and by observing customs, one can understand instruction.

Those who hold fast to what is genuine and treat others with sincerity can resonate with Heaven and Earth, and their spirit can transcend the bounds of any region. When they issue a command, people obey; when they impose a prohibition, people desist. Their sincerity accords with the Dao, and their intentions reach others. Even without saying a word, they can transform the people of the world, along with birds and beasts, ghosts and spirits. When a sage governs the world, the people follow his instruction as naturally as a ball turns. The original text repeats this passage here.

To prohibit wrongdoing is as difficult as trying to make something round stop moving. Therefore, through the De that needs no words and instruction that relies on no speech, even birds and beasts, spirits and ghosts can be won over—how much more so people? The highest form of governance transforms all things through mysterious De, allowing everything to return to its natural state. The next best form keeps people from doing wrong by setting up laws to restrain their conduct. Lower still is the practice of rewarding the worthy and punishing the violent.

Only after the Dao and De declined did systems of rewards and punishments come into use. Once the way of recommending worthy people is opened, the unworthy may also take up official posts. If the worthy leave their positions, the seeds of disorder may arise, and the worthy may even be killed as a result. So it must be understood: if laws are not clear and strict, those who enforce them may abuse their authority; if standards are unfair, those who apply them may become weak and ineffectual.”

Laozi says: The Great Dao—the fundamental principle underlying all things in the universe—acts through Wuwei (non-action), without deliberate exertion. “Nonbeing” means that it occupies no fixed place. Since it does not dwell in any one place, it exists in the formless. The formless has no movement; without movement, there is no speech. Without speech, there is only stillness and silence, without form. It cannot be seen or heard; this is called the subtle, and also the supremely numinous. It continues without end, seeming to exist yet remaining elusive. Thus it is said to be the root of Heaven and Earth.

“Non-action” does not mean doing nothing. It means acting without relying on one’s achievements, and so it is called non-action. “Silence” does not mean having nothing to say. It means speaking without boasting, and so it is called silence. How can something formless be heard? How can something without color be seen? This may be called the mysterious and subtle. The Dao stands alone and does not change; it endures without end and is the root of Heaven and Earth.

The Dao has neither form nor sound, so the sage reluctantly gives it a name of one character to explain the principles of Heaven and Earth. This speaks to the essentials of attaining the Dao: the great takes the small as its root, and the many begin with the few. Being arises from nonbeing; the many arise from the One. If you investigate the root, you return to the formless. If you chase after the branches, you will be confused by the multitude of things. Therefore, those who understand the return to the root take non-action as their foundation; those drawn along by the multitude of things make seeking the One their guiding aim.

The Son of Heaven regards Heaven and Earth as belonging to his own kind, showing the breadth of his scope, and regards the myriad things as resources for his use, showing that he lacks nothing. His merit is immense, and his status and reputation supremely exalted. These two virtues match Heaven and Earth. He must therefore follow the Great Dao, lest he disrupt the realm. The Great Dao is the root of the realm and the constant principle of the Way of Heaven.

Laozi says: Relieving poverty and aiding those in distress are actions that accord with proper standards. The Great Dao is the root of the realm. As the most exalted person within the Four Seas, whose position matches Heaven and Earth, how could one fail to follow the Great Dao and thereby disrupt order? This is the constant principle of the Way of Heaven.

Laozi says: Aiding the poor and relieving urgent distress bring fame and benefit, so do not merely offer small acts of kindness. Removing calamities is what counts as accomplishment. Not claiming credit for one’s achievements is a good deed. When the world is free of calamity, even a sage has no chance to put De into practice; when those above and below live in harmony, even a worthy person has no place to establish merit. When calamity strikes, the sage brings it to an end; when a state falls into turmoil, the worthy person restores order. Now there is neither calamity nor turmoil. Even a sage has no path by which to enact sage virtue, and even a worthy person has no opportunity to accomplish great deeds.

Thus, the Perfected One—the person whose De accords with the Dao—governs the world by keeping virtue within and embracing the Great Dao, treating people sincerely and gladly giving to them. Though possessing boundless wisdom, they set aside speech and argument and are slow to speak. The people of the world, in turn, do not know to value their silence. The people eat their fill, pat their bellies, and sing, scarcely knowing that they owe it all to their ruler’s governance.

Therefore, the “Dao” that can be expressed in words is not the constant Dao; the “name” that can be defined is not the constant name. The nameless Dao is the highest state of the Dao; the named Dao is the Dao that people use to describe and understand the world. Once the Dao is fixed in words, it is no longer the whole Dao; once a name is fixed, it is no longer the whole name. What is written on bamboo and silk, or carved in bronze and stone, and can be passed down to later generations is only the shallowest part of the Dao, often embellished along the way.

The Three Sovereigns, Five Emperors, and Three Kings acted in different ways, yet held to the same inner principle; their paths differed, but they arrived at the same end. In other words, they lived in different eras and governed by different means, yet all returned to the same Dao. Scholars of later ages do not understand that the root of the Dao is one or grasp the central principle of De. They pursue only the outward traces of what has already been accomplished and cling to words. However learned they may be, they cannot avoid creating confusion. Scholars today do not investigate the root, grasp the essential meaning, or examine the underlying principles. They seek only the surface traces of things, striving endlessly for breadth and abundance, and thereby only add to the confusion.

Laozi says: The subtle and pure state within the heart can bring a person to wondrous transformations, yet it cannot be explained in words. Since these wondrous transformations cannot be spoken of, one cannot explain them by saying that they are contrary to the Dao. The sage need not leave their seat to set the world right, …

Laozi says: The subtle workings of the mind can bring about wondrous transformations, yet they are difficult to explain in words. Nor can this wondrous power of influence simply be dismissed as “not the Dao.” A sage can set the world to rights without leaving his seat; the feeling he conveys moves people more deeply than a shout. The sound of a shout can be heard, but its influence is limited. Once an order is issued, everyone in the world obeys it.

People believe the same words because trust was established before they were spoken. They carry out the same commands because sincerity was already present beyond the commands themselves. The sage shares the people’s concerns, so when he speaks, they believe him: trust is already settled in their hearts, and no one fails to respond. The sage shares in the people’s well-being, so his orders can be carried out and his sincerity made clear; no one goes against them.

When the sage is in a position of authority, the people are transformed by his influence as if through a wondrous change. This is because his feelings reach their hearts before his orders do. The people understand his intentions and respond as though their minds were in harmony. When those below do not respond to the actions of those above, it is because their feelings and orders are not in accord.

The hungry need food; the cold long for warm clothing. If the hungry are given clothing and the cold are given food, the orders from above make no sense. How, then, could those below obey? A three-month-old infant does not yet understand benefit or harm, yet a loving mother cherishes the child all the more. This comes from the bond of affection. The infant cannot say whether he is hungry or full, but the mother carefully watches whether he is dry or wet, warm or cold, and tends and raises him. If a ruler cares for the people as a loving mother cares for her infant, why worry that the world cannot be settled and the four seas cannot be at peace?

Thus, the changes brought about by teaching through words are limited. When one teaches without words, by setting an example and moving people through feeling, the changes are far greater. Teaching that uses words has less effect; influence that needs no words has more. A gentleman’s words are worthy of trust, and his intentions are sincere. When loyalty and trust shine from within, they move others outwardly. This is the teaching of the worthy and the sage. A gentleman speaks with loyalty and trust because these are already his intentions; he does not deliberately leave anything out of mind. Thus, when loyalty and trust shine from within and move those outside him, no one, not even the worthy or the sage, remains untouched.

Laozi says: A son who dies for his father, or a minister who dies for his ruler, does not give up his life in pursuit of fame. A sense of gratitude and duty is deeply rooted within; this is the gentleman’s natural intention, not something he deliberately keeps in mind. Thus, when inner loyalty shines forth, it can move those outside. No one, not even the worthy or the sage, remains unmoved.

Laozi says: “A son who dies for his father, or a minister who dies for his ruler, does not give up his life to seek fame. He does so because he holds gratitude and a sense of duty in his heart, and will not flee when danger comes.” When a son dies in the face of danger to his father, or a minister in the face of danger to his ruler, he is not deliberately trying to distinguish himself or win praise. His gratitude and sense of duty run so deep that he forgets his own safety and goes straight into danger. This sincerity comes from within. A noble person’s grief and compassion—“cenda,” meaning sorrow and anguish—are not put on deliberately; they arise naturally from the heart. One should also observe his actual conduct.

The commentator says that “cenda” can also refer to punishments under the law. Punishment and killing are not the right way. Punishment is used only to restrain wrongdoing and encourage people to do good; it is a measure of last resort and must not be abused. The sage does not fear his shadow being cast, because he has done nothing wrong. A noble person is careful in speech and conduct when alone: this is what it means not to deceive oneself in a dark and deserted place.

If one gives up what should be done at hand and places one’s hopes in something distant, things will be blocked and come to nothing. If one does not begin with oneself but instead makes demands of others far away, that too will fail. Thus, when the sage holds a position of authority, the people gladly accept his governance; when he lives among the people, they admire his intentions. He never forgets to help others, and his wish is to benefit them, so everyone loves and admires him.

Laozi said: When a brave warrior cries out, the whole army withdraws. This is because his command comes from sincerity. When a courageous person calls out, thousands are struck with fear. The wise person who governs the world is what all the people hope for. If one person sings and no one joins in, or if someone has an idea but does not put it into action, there must be something within that is out of accord, because each person honors different things.

One can set the world right without leaving one’s seat; the key is to look for the cause within oneself. One’s griefs and joys are like those of the people, and one’s likes and dislikes are much the same as theirs. So by reflecting on oneself, one can transform others. What words cannot express may be revealed in one’s appearance and expression. Even without reaching the subtle essence of things, one can glimpse its signs in outward expression. What appearance and expression cannot convey may be revealed through the heart’s response: feeling arises within and then shows itself in the body. It can be perceived with the heart and need not be sought through outward appearance alone. What is supremely subtle can be conveyed through contact between bodies, yet cannot be measured in advance by the gaze. The formless is contained within form; the most subtle vital essence gives rise to all forms, and so form becomes visible. The gaze does not deliberately seek the subtle, yet the subtle is naturally present.

Laozi said: Words have their roots, and actions have their grounds. If one loses those roots and grounds, then however many skills one may have, it is better to say little. Take the Dao as your root and De as your ground; apart from the Dao and De, more is no better than less. The craftsman Chui, famed in legend for his skill, harms people: someone asks him to cut off his own finger to show that extraordinary skill does not necessarily depend on having fingers. Skill is held in the heart, not only in the fingers; even if a finger is cut off, the skill does not thereby disappear. The Dao is within the heart, and making it clear does not depend on grand words. If one has truly understood the Dao, one will cherish words. Seeking the Dao cannot depend on luck.

Thus, when craftsmen use their intelligence in their work, they do not rely on skill alone. They know when to hold back and when to act. First close, then open. A craftsman is a maker; here, “close” is a metaphor for restraint and keeping things within. A highly ingenious mechanism can be shut by someone skilled in the use of intelligence, leaving others unable to open it. A clumsy person can only pry at it by brute force; however strong they may be, they will eventually manage to open it. This illustrates how those who know how to use their intelligence and investigate subtle principles can succeed, while brute force alone is ultimately inadequate.

Laozi says: The sage may follow different paths in dealing with affairs, yet they lead to the same end. Though ancient and modern times differ, the principles of governance remain the same. Whether preserving a state on the brink of collapse or bringing stability to one in peril, the sage never loses sight of benefiting the people. Preserving what is about to perish and stabilizing what is about to fall are not done for the sage’s own sake, but always to benefit others.

The songs of Qin, Chu, Yan, and Wei differ, yet all express joy. The cries of the Nine Yi and Eight Di—ancient names for some peoples of the east and north—also differ, yet all express grief. Singing gives voice to joy; weeping releases sorrow. Feelings are held within the heart and revealed outwardly, so what matters is what moves people. Sound and breath respond to one another; sorrow and joy stir one another in turn. Thus the songs of different states, though unlike in sound, share the same joy, while the cries of different regions, though unlike, share the same grief. Day and night, the sage’s heart remains intent on benefiting the people, so his kindness reaches far and wide. By continually benefiting others, one’s kindness can extend to every region.

Laozi says: When people follow nature and do not impose their will, they can govern the world well. Deliberate action undermines governance through Wuwei (non-action). “Acting through non-action” means carrying things out without forcing or contriving them. Those who insist on acting deliberately cannot practice Wuwei; without Wuwei, they cannot truly accomplish anything. The effects of Wuwei can be broad and far-reaching. By continually benefiting others, one’s kindness can extend to every region.

Laozi says: People can govern through Wuwei while still undertaking various actions. But if those actions undermine governance through Wuwei, they depart from its principle. Wuwei does not mean doing nothing at all. It means acting without deliberate contrivance; contrivance is contrary to Wuwei.

People may speak no words, yet their spirit can still find expression. Deliberately giving voice to it can damage the mystery of wordlessness; clinging to “wordlessness” as a method can also impair the spirit’s own vitality. The spirit is prized for being wordless, and the sage values action without contrivance. Words leave traces, while deliberate action is a crude expression of human striving. Only by keeping words and actions from harming what is genuine can one preserve the Great Dao.

Wenzi says: Fame and achievements can both be established and attained through effort. This is why people are urged to work diligently.

Long ago, Laozi’s disciple Nanrong Chu worried that he had not understood the sage’s Way. He traveled south to visit Laozi and heard him speak a single sentence. Nanrong Chu’s spirit then became clear, and his troubles and doubts gradually fell away. He devoted himself to reflecting on that sentence. For ten days he ate nothing, yet felt as satisfied as if he had feasted lavishly. Because he studied it so deeply, his reputation later spread far and endured through the generations. His wisdom was enough to perceive Heaven and Earth and discern details as fine as an autumn hair. People praised him, and his name is still remembered today. This shows that fame can be established through effort. Once the words of ultimate truth are understood, all kinds of doubts vanish at once, like sunlight entering a dark room and illuminating everything.

If farmers do not work hard, their storehouses will not be full. If officials do not apply themselves, they will struggle to focus their minds. If generals and ministers do not strive, they cannot achieve great deeds. If rulers grow complacent, they will leave no name for later generations. From ordinary people to rulers, no one can fill the granaries or make their achievements renowned without diligence.

Those who have attained the Dao act without revealing themselves, like thunder gathering its force in silence. They act in response to the moment and build achievements from the conditions at hand; thus they can advance or withdraw freely, and nothing obstructs them. When a great person follows the Way, he is still and leaves no trace; people throughout the realm cannot see what he has done. But when the moment arrives, he acts like thunder, and no one in the realm can fail to hear it. He shows no delight when he advances, and no shame when he withdraws. This is the Great Dao.

Those who have attained the Dao are sincere within, and their De (virtue and power) extends in every direction. When they see what benefits the realm, they rejoice; when they see it harmed, they feel anxious, as though they themselves had suffered a loss. They grieve over what grieves the people, and the people grieve for them in turn. They take joy in what gives the people joy, and the people share their happiness. No one has ever achieved kingship without sharing the people’s sorrows and joys.

The way the sage governs is difficult to perceive at first, yet in the end no one can surpass it. De and righteousness have no fixed boundaries and no end. The sage places himself on firm ground and establishes himself in the Way of Wuwei (non-action). He stores up resources that can never be exhausted, as though he possessed a treasury that could never run dry; thus their use has no limit. His orders should flow freely, like water from a spring, so that the people can live securely in their occupations and not contend with one another. When orders are carried out, the people understand the prohibitions; when affairs of state are kept simple, the government has fewer disputes and lawsuits.

In governing, open paths by which people can succeed, and let them settle into their own work. Do not undertake what is bound to fail, seek what cannot be obtained, occupy a position that cannot be held for long, or adopt a practice that cannot be sustained. When a great person issues orders, each action should bring benefit, and each policy should promote what is useful. If orders accord with reason, people will follow them willingly. Their compliance allows small things to grow into great achievements. If orders go against human feeling, even good intentions may be taken as harmful, and an undertaking that succeeds may still end in failure.

A truly great person is strong within and clear-sighted without. Within, he is like Heaven and Earth, able to contain all things; outwardly, he is like the sun and moon, able to illuminate all things. A great person shows others the good Way. He does not lightly change its fundamental principles or casually alter its constant course. Then people throughout the realm will follow his orders like grass bending in the wind. If old customs are changed too abruptly, the people cannot settle. If they are governed in accordance with their nature, they are easy to govern.

If government is mishandled in spring, the Year Star (Jupiter) strays from its regular course. If it is mishandled in summer, the Fire Star (Mars) moves in reverse. If it is mishandled in autumn, the Metal Star (Venus) appears and disappears irregularly. If it is mishandled in winter, the Water Star (Mercury) moves out of order. If government fails in all four seasons, the Earth Star (Saturn) also becomes unsettled; the sun and moon show anomalies, the five planets fall into disorder, and comets appear. The ancients believed that when the four seasons are out of balance and the heavens display irregular signs, calamities descend upon the human world.

When spring government is proper, millet and grain flourish. When summer government is proper, rain falls at the right time. When autumn government is proper, the people grow prosperous. When winter government is proper, the state is peaceful and secure. This explains why an enlightened ruler must not govern wrongly: when the ruler fails in his duties, Heaven sends down every kind of calamity; when he upholds what is right, Heaven sends down every kind of good fortune. If one ruler is blessed, the people of the realm will also live in peace and happiness.

Volume Three of the Wenzi: Understanding the Mysteries, with commentary by Master Silent Hope (Moxi Zi).

The Nine Preservations

This chapter is divided into nine sections, hence its title, “The Nine Preservations.” In the Book of Changes, nine marks the utmost limit of number. When things reach their extreme, they change; if change loses its proper course, it goes against the Dao. Those who preserve the Dao can remain at ease wherever they are. Even when they occupy the highest position, they will incur no regret or trouble; they may even surpass the realm of the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing), the three highest deities revered in Daoism. Those who neglect to preserve the Dao are like a mare whose actions bring no success, and may ultimately sink into the Ninefold Darkness, the deep and shadowy underworld. Therefore, one should hold firmly to the Dao and never lose its constant way.

Laozi said: Before Heaven and Earth took shape, all was deep and dark, fused into a single whole; Qi and form had not yet separated. Later, things became clear and pure. The heavy, turbid parts condensed into Earth, while the subtle, refined parts rose to become Heaven. Thus the forms of Heaven and Earth came into being.

As Heaven and Earth separated, the four seasons took shape: spring brought forth the sprouting of all things, summer brought their growth, autumn brought the harvest, and winter their storage. Yin and Yang also separated, and firmness and yielding each took their place. Pure Qi formed human beings, while coarse, turbid Qi formed insects. All things originally share the same root; only because they receive different Qi do they differ in clarity and turbidity, refinement and coarseness. When firmness and yielding work together, all things can come into being, and from then on change has no end.

The human spirit has its source in Heaven, while the bones have their source in Earth. What comes from Heaven tends toward what is above; what comes from Earth tends toward what is below. When the spirit enters Heaven’s gate and the bones return to Earth’s root, where is the “I”? Only by entering the gate of the boundless and returning to the source of transformation can one recognize what is real. Who, then, can claim there is a fixed and unchanging “I”?

Therefore, sages model themselves on Heaven and follow Earth. They are not constrained by worldly conventions or led astray by others. They take Heaven as their father and Earth as their mother, Yin and Yang as their guiding principles, and the four seasons as their measure. They move freely between Heaven and Earth while following their order, roaming at ease in a realm of freedom. They dwell in Wuwei (non-action), beyond the constraints of the world and beyond the temptations of other people.

Heaven is still and clear; Earth is settled and steady. All things perish when they go against the patterns of Heaven and Earth, and grow when they follow them. Heaven has no intention of favoring those who comply or punishing those who resist, yet human life and death, fortune and misfortune, arise from this. Thus, stillness and detachment are where the spirit finds rest, while emptiness is where the Dao (the Way) resides. The Dao abides in silence, and the spirit wanders in the utmost realm of emptiness.

The human spirit is received from Heaven, and the bones from Earth. The clear Qi of Heaven gives rise to the spirit; the heavy Qi of Earth gathers to form the bones. That is why it is said that they are received from Heaven and Earth.

“The Dao gives birth to One; One gives birth to Two; Two gives birth to Three; Three gives birth to the myriad things.” One is Heaven, Two is Earth, and Three is humanity. Through continual transformation, the myriad things come forth in abundance. All things carry Yin and embrace Yang, allowing the two kinds of Qi to blend and harmonize within them.

Laozi said: People are born by receiving the changes of Heaven and Earth. They live between Heaven and Earth and hold a place among the myriad things. In the first month of pregnancy, the fetus gathers like a mass of fatty substance. In the second month, the blood vessels form and signs of an embryo begin to appear in its shape. In the third month, the embryo gradually takes shape, and the harmonizing Qi—the original energy that balances Yin-Yang—settles into place.

Laozi said: People are born by receiving the changes of Heaven and Earth. They live between Heaven and Earth and hold a place among the myriad things. In the first month of pregnancy, the fetus gathers like a mass of fatty substance. In the second month, the blood vessels form and the shape first appears. In the third month, the fetus takes shape and its inner spirit begins to settle. In the fourth month, its shape becomes stable; in the fifth, its sinews and vessels form; in the sixth, its bones form; in the seventh, its body is complete and its sensory openings begin to function. In the eighth month, the fetus begins to move and the spirit descends into it. In the ninth month, the body stirs; its organs and parts take their places in order, and its vital essence gradually settles. In the tenth month, it is born, with all parts of its body complete. Once the body has taken shape, the five viscera become distinct. The liver corresponds to the eyes, the kidneys to the ears, the spleen to the tongue, the lungs to the nose, and the gallbladder to the mouth.

The outside of a person is the exterior, and the inside is the interior. The head is round, taking its model from Heaven; the feet are square, symbolizing Earth. A person’s body contains the forms of the myriad things, so it must not be treated carelessly. Heaven has the four seasons, the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), the nine celestial bodies known as the Nine Luminaries, and three hundred and sixty days. People have four limbs, five viscera, nine apertures, and three hundred and sixty joints. Heaven has wind, rain, cold, and heat; people have choices, likes and dislikes, and joy and anger. The gallbladder corresponds to clouds, the lungs to Qi, the spleen to wind, the kidneys to rain, and the liver to thunder. People resemble Heaven and Earth, and the heart governs the body. The heart directs the five viscera, six bowels, four limbs, and nine apertures. It connects upward with Heaven, responds downward to Earth, and harmonizes in between with the myriad things. This is what is called Shen (spirit). Ordinary people use it every day without knowing it; few understand this principle.

The ears and eyes correspond to the sun and moon, while blood and Qi correspond to wind and rain. When the sun and moon move out of order, solar and lunar eclipses occur and their light grows dim. When wind and rain come at the wrong time, they destroy the myriad things and bring disaster. The sun and moon need to shine clearly, and wind and rain need to be in harmony; when they are mistimed or out of balance, disaster follows. The same is true of people: the ears and eyes should be clear, and the blood vessels should be calm and balanced. If they are not in harmony, illness arises. When the five planets move out of order, the regions associated with them suffer. When the five viscera are invaded by harmful Qi, the whole body falls ill. Heaven and Earth are vast and boundless, yet still regulate the four seasons, harmonize the movements of the stars, and protect their own spirit. How much more, then, should a person’s ears, eyes, and thoughts be allowed to rest instead of being made to labor without pause? How could the spirit be allowed to chase after whatever it pleases without growing weary? Heaven and Earth are so vast, yet they regulate the seasons, coordinate the Five Luminaries—the five planets—and preserve their spirit. If people overwork their ears and eyes and let their thoughts run wild, how can they preserve their own nature and spirit?

Therefore, the sage protects the inner self while also caring for the outer: inwardly, the sage nourishes the spirit; outwardly, the sage preserves the body. Blood and Qi are the body’s radiance, and the five viscera are where a person’s vital essence resides. When blood and Qi remain focused within and are not dissipated outward, the chest and abdomen become full, and cravings diminish. The inner can be understood by observing the outer; the end can be inferred by examining the root. Cravings arise in the heart, and the complexion grows haggard. When vital essence is harmonized within, the skin becomes full and healthy. When cravings are few, the ears and eyes become clear: hearing is precise and sight is sharp. This is called “clarity.” With keen hearing, nothing escapes notice; with clear sight, nothing goes unseen. All this comes from having few personal desires and keeping one’s wants in check.

When the five viscera are governed by the heart and do not become scattered, the intention and Qi can overcome disorder. Conduct does not stray into wrongdoing, the spirit is vigorous, and Qi is not lost. Then one can hear clearly, see clearly, and accomplish tasks more easily. If a person can make the heart upright and still, and the five viscera remain free of harmful Qi, rebellious and disordered Qi will disperse and the spirit’s activity will become clear. One can then perceive what is subtle and distinguish what is hidden, and tasks can be completed. Misfortune finds no way in, and harmful Qi cannot invade. When conduct is consistently upright, misfortune naturally recedes; when vital essence within remains undisturbed, external harm has no way to enter.

The more one pursues, the less one often truly gains. The broader the view, the less one may actually understand. When one seeks much by starting with little, things become easier; to infer the vast from the small is true discernment. A person’s apertures are like doorways through which the spirit enters and leaves, while blood and Qi are like messengers of the five viscera. When the doorways stand open, the spirit can pass through and perceive clearly; when blood and Qi flow smoothly, the five viscera become open and harmonious. If the ears and eyes become absorbed in sounds and sights, the five viscera are thrown into turmoil, blood and Qi surge without stopping, and the spirit scatters outward. Even if misfortune or good fortune comes like a mountain, one will not notice it.

When people are captivated by sounds and sights and make the spirit serve them, they attend to one thing at the expense of another. When the surface of the water is still, even a fine hair can be seen. When a person’s understanding is clouded, even a calamity as large as a mountain goes unnoticed. Therefore, although the sage has desires, the sage does not let them exceed their proper bounds, but restrains and nurtures them, seeking nothing beyond what is fitting. The sage keeps the ears and eyes clear and unobstructed, without letting external things lure them away; the heart and Qi remain calm and still, and cravings are few. The five viscera are then at peace. When the spirit stays within and is not dissipated outward, one can observe the past and future and discern the signs of good and ill fortune.

The sage knows that cravings obstruct clear understanding, and therefore gathers the Qi into a single focus, stills disorder, and keeps the spirit from wandering outward. In this way, what lies within and without can be seen clearly, and the signs of good and ill fortune become apparent. The farther one chases after things outside oneself, the less one knows. Following external things into the distance leads one to neglect oneself: one abandons the great root and gains only a small benefit. This shows why the spirit must not be allowed to dissipate outward at will.

The five colors disturb the eyes and make it hard to see; the five tones fill the ears and make it hard to hear; an excess of the five flavors harms the mouth. When one covets things outside, something within is depleted. Choices and rejections disturb the heart, and conduct becomes restless and unrestrained. Cravings throw Qi into disorder, while love and hatred wear down vital essence. If these burdens are not removed in time, one’s resolve and Qi diminish day by day. As vital essence continues to drain away, body and spirit gradually decline.

People fail to live out their natural lifespan because they cling too strongly to life. To cling to life is to eat and drink too much without knowing when enough is enough, seeking only momentary satisfaction and thereby harming oneself. Only by refusing to make the pursuit of pleasure the purpose of life can one attain longevity. Those who do not cling to life do not place themselves on a path that must end in death.

The workings of Heaven and Earth are interconnected, and the myriad things are joined as one. Whoever understands the One can understand everything; whoever does not understand the One can scarcely understand anything. The endless transformations of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things all arise from the One. Though the kinds of things take different forms, they share a common source. Therefore, understanding that all things come from the One makes their principles clear; without this understanding, one is easily lost when facing events.

I live in the world and am only one thing among the myriad things; other things are also each one thing. On what basis, then, do things oppose and distinguish themselves from one another? This explains that things and the self are connected, and that love and hatred have no fixed master. People, too, are one thing among the myriad things of the world. Since all belong to a single whole, why cling to distinctions between self and things? When the distinction between self and things is forgotten, right and wrong can no longer arise, and one can preserve one’s original nature in emptiness and stillness.

There is no need to cling deliberately to staying alive, nor to deliberately flee from death. Desires must not be indulged, and one should not be burdened with too many affairs. There is no need to despise a lowly position, nor to rejoice because one holds an honored one. When low and high positions each find their proper place, where can love and hatred arise? By settling into life according to one’s circumstances and not daring to pursue too much, one can attain true happiness. All that has been said explains the essentials of self-cultivation and governing the world within the “Nine Principles of Preservation”—the nine principles for safeguarding body and mind and governing the state. Those who aspire to the Dao should reflect on them carefully.

Laozi said: “A sage is one who responds to the conditions of the time, remains content in their place, and takes joy in the work they do in the world. To be at ease in circumstances that others find hard to endure is true peace; to take joy in tasks others find hard to enjoy is true happiness.

“Sorrow and joy can damage De (Virtue/Power); likes and dislikes can become burdens on the heart; and anger and delight can lead one away from the Dao (the Way). Ordinary people harbor these feelings, but those who have attained the Dao are not ruled by them. While alive, they follow the natural course of things; when they die, they change along with the myriad things. Life is not mine alone to possess, so birth is said to follow the course of Heaven. Nor is death something I can bring to an end, so dying is said to be a change along with the myriad things. In stillness, one accords with Yin; in action, one moves with Yang. In both motion and stillness, one never loses the right path.

“The heart is the foundation of the body’s life and activity, and Shen (spirit) is its most precious part. The body is Shen’s dwelling place; Jing (essence) is the refined, numinous aspect of Qi (vital energy). They depend on one another and each takes precedence in its own way; if they become separated, a person dies. If the body is overworked without rest, it weakens; if the spirit is used without pause, it is depleted. A sage follows these principles, never overstepping them or lightly exhausting body and spirit.

“To respond to what is real from a state of emptiness is to investigate its principles fully; to receive actual things in stillness is likewise to understand their proper measure. The myriad things arise from nothingness, and so nothing is lacking; Heaven and Earth accommodate all things through emptiness, and so there is nothing they cannot contain. People should be calm, contented, empty, and still, and pass their lives in this way. By holding to stillness, they come to understand life and death.

“One should neither deliberately distance oneself from people and affairs nor deliberately draw near to them. There is no need to curry favor with the exalted, nor to reject the lowly. Cultivate De and nurture harmonious Qi; follow the course of Heaven, join with the Dao, and keep company with De. Do not rush to summon good fortune or be quick to invite disaster. In this way, neither life nor death can change you, which is why this state is called ‘Utmost Spirit’—a realm of spiritual clarity and accord with the Dao. One who accords with Dao and De and regards life and death as equal cannot be made more dependent by good fortune or brought down by misfortune. How could anyone do this without reaching the state of Utmost Spirit?

“When one reaches the state of Utmost Spirit, nothing sought remains unattained, and nothing undertaken remains unaccomplished. One who shares the Dao of Heaven and Earth and accords in De with the spirits can attain all that is sought and accomplish all that is undertaken. This may be called Utmost Spirit.”

Note: The commentary on this passage explains phrases such as “Life is not mine alone to possess, so birth follows the course of Heaven.” Here, “body” refers to the human physical form, “spirit” to the mind and spiritual awareness, and “essence” and “Qi” to vital elements in Daoist cultivation.

Laozi said: If you regard the world as less important, your spirit will not be burdened by external things. If you regard the myriad things as small, your heart will not be confused. Take “nonbeing” as your foundation, and nothing will be beyond your ability to accomplish. If you can follow the same Dao as Heaven and Earth and share the same De as the spirits, then everything you seek can be obtained and everything you undertake can succeed. This may be called the state of utmost spirit.

The chapter “Guarding Nonbeing” also says: If you regard the world as less important, your spirit will not be burdened; if you regard the myriad things as small, your heart will not be confused. If you do not treat the world as an object for the myriad things to contend over, what could burden your spirit? If you are not drawn along by the myriad things, what could stir your heart? If you regard life and death as one, your resolve will not fear death; go along with the transformations together with the myriad things…