《通玄真经[注](徐灵府)》Vol. 5

Laozi says: A country is strong because its soldiers are willing to die for it; soldiers are willing to die for their country because they hold to what is right. For what is right to be upheld, authority is needed. Therefore, teach them through rites and laws, and bring them into order through military discipline. In this way, they will willingly obey commands. When authority and what is right are upheld together, the country will surely be strong.

When two armies clash, swords and spears strike, and arrows and stones fall like rain, yet the soldiers still vie to charge at the front. This is because rewards are reliable and punishments clear. A ruler should care for those under his command as for his own children, while officials should revere their ruler as they would their father. If the ruler regards his subordinates as brothers, they too will serve him faithfully as they would an elder brother. A ruler who treats his people with the care he gives his children can rule over all under Heaven; officials who honor their ruler as they would their father can govern the realm. When a ruler treats his subordinates as brothers, they will be willing to die for him; when officials serve their ruler as they would an elder brother, they will not flee in times of danger. Thus, when ruler and subjects share the affection of parent and child, of elder and younger brother, they can fight fiercely even against a powerful enemy. Under such a ruler, all under Heaven are like one family. When soldiers unite in purpose, they fear no strong enemy and do not cling to their own lives. Those moved by kindness and what is right regard death as if they were returning home.

Could a son, when his father is in danger, begrudge his life and refuse to rescue him? Could officials, when their ruler faces calamity, fear death and refuse to serve him loyally? Thus, a ruler who upholds what is right puts the affairs of state in order and builds up De (Virtue/Power) within the country; beyond its borders, he resists evil and displays the nation’s strength. He observes whether his soldiers are weary or at ease, and learns whether they are hungry or well fed. When the appointed day of battle arrives, the soldiers’ readiness to face death as though returning home is the result of the ruler’s kindness. Once trust and righteousness have been established, people will not hesitate even when facing death. When kindness and authority are both properly exercised, their influence can reach far and wide.

The eleventh scroll of the Tongxuan Zhenjing ends here.

In ancient times, the realized ones and the rulers of the primordial age lived in harmony with Yin-Yang. People revered their De, and society was peaceful and harmonious. Governance then operated naturally, without display or deliberate effort. The people were simple and sincere, and all things found their proper place. The rulers kept luminous De within themselves and lived in harmony with all things. There was no turmoil under Heaven; people followed their inborn nature and did not harm one another, so all could live at ease.

As the Way of the age declined, Fuxi, the legendary ancient ruler, appeared. People gradually left behind their innocent, unknowing state and began seeking knowledge of Heaven and Earth. Their De consequently grew complicated and divided. Fuxi drew the Bagua (Eight Trigrams) to communicate with the spirits and classify the myriad things. He also tied cords together to make nets for hunting and fishing. People moved from ignorance toward awareness, but they also gradually lost their original nature. Compared with the primordial age, this was already a degenerate age.

Later, Shennong and the Yellow Emperor governed the realm, ordering the four seasons and harmonizing Yin-Yang. The people began working harder and paying closer attention to what they heard and saw. Though there was governance, it was no longer naturally harmonious as before. Shennong made plows and hoes for turning the soil and sowing seeds, and taught the people to cultivate crops. The Yellow Emperor made caps and garments, cleared blockages between Yin and Yang and quelled rebellious, disorderly Qi. He also devised writing and tally contracts, established musical tones and the calendar, recorded the seasons, and harmonized the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). Fearing that order would be lost, people began carefully attending to the teachings of those above them. This governance achieved results, but lacked natural harmony.

By the Xia and Shang dynasties, desires had grown ever stronger. People were enticed by external things, and their intelligence and abilities were drawn outward, causing them to lose their inner nature and the truth of their lives. From the Zhou dynasty onward, once generous customs gradually became superficial, and simplicity steadily faded. People turned away from the Great Dao, treating falsehood as the right path and deceit as De; cunning and calculation flourished. Some imitated the sages to gain a name, using elaborate ornament to please the crowd and polishing the Odes and Documents to win renown. Everyone wanted to display ingenuity and please the world through artifice, and so they lost the fundamental Dao. The decline that comes from losing one’s nature and the truth of life had been building for a long time; it did not suddenly begin in the Zhou dynasty.

Thus, the Perfected study in order to return their nature to emptiness and let their mind and spirit settle in stillness. Ordinary people, by contrast, study to show off their De and damage their nature, burdening their minds with worry and letting their conduct run wild. They seek worldly fame through noise and cleverness. These are not the actions of the Perfected. “Exalting De” means displaying and boasting of one’s De; “seizing nature” means damaging one’s inborn nature.

The Perfected are at peace with life and death and understand the nature of honor and disgrace. If all under Heaven praises them, they do not press forward with greater zeal; if all under Heaven condemns them, they do not become disheartened. This is what it means to grasp the essentials of the Great Dao. Every age has its Perfected, but they are exceedingly rare—one among ten thousand.

The learning of the Perfected restores one’s nature amid a world of ornate falsehood and nourishes the spirit in a realm of emptiness and stillness. They do not flaunt their De or rely on their abilities. Life and death cannot change their hearts, and gain and loss cannot disturb their inner selves. Today, some people who seek learning go against their nature in pursuit of advancement, then rush about chasing fame and reputation. As a result, crooked ways flourish while the loyal and upright withdraw. One cannot hope both to bring peace to the age and to keep oneself secure in this way.

In ancient times, rulers wore their hair loose and unbound, and their garments had no finished edging, yet they were able to govern the world. Their virtue lay in allowing all things to grow without harming them, and in giving to the people without taking from them. The people of the world did not necessarily dress like their rulers, yet they all respected and embraced their virtue.

At that time, Yin and Yang were in harmony, and all things flourished and grew. One could reach into birds’ nests without frightening the birds; wild animals could be tethered and led without fear. This was how rulers of remote antiquity governed the world: they wore no crowns and did not arrange their hair, but ruled with their hair loose, settled the people’s lives, and did not seize their gains. Thus the seasons proceeded in harmony, and all things found what suited them. Birds in their nests could be reached without panic, and tethered beasts felt no fear: this was a sign that virtue had reached its highest state.

Later, the age declined. Birds, beasts, insects, and snakes all became a menace to the people, so they smelted iron and made knives to defend against danger. When the people were threatened, they sought ways to respond; when calamity struck, they made preparations against it. Each used their ingenuity to eliminate harm and seek advantage. Since the common conditions of the age had changed, the old ways could not simply be continued. Tools and devices, too, could not remain unchanged. Therefore, the laws of the former kings sometimes had to be altered. The Dao De Jing says: “The Dao that can be spoken of and fixed is not the eternal, unchanging Dao.”

After the decline of the age, things were no longer simple and uniform. People each had their own intentions and harmed one another, using cleverness to deceive one another. They therefore made devices for protection, eliminating harm and seeking benefit. The former kings changed their laws not because laws have eternal names and standards, but because circumstances differed. The Five Emperors each governed the world in a different way, yet their virtue benefited all under heaven; the Three Kings followed different practices, yet each became renowned by later generations. All of these were ways of acting in response to the changes of the times.

This is like the musician Shi Kuang adjusting the Five Tones—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu. The shifts in pitch have no fixed measure or name, yet he could always tune them appropriately. One who truly understands music can compose a piece because they grasp its foundations in their heart. Though the laws of the Five Emperors and Three Kings differed, they were like the musician who adjusts the Five Tones while grasping the foundations of music. The gong tone is primary among the Five Tones, just as the ruler is primary among the people of the various clans. Without an inner guiding principle, order falls into confusion; therefore, a central guide must be established so that all may be brought into unity.

Only those who understand the distinct uses of tools such as the compass, square, marking hook, and measuring line can manage affairs. Thus, if the institutions of former kings no longer suit the times, they should be discarded; if practices of later generations are truly beneficial, they should be established. The sage creates rites and music but is not bound by them; directs the myriad things but is not directed by them; makes laws but is not constrained by them. If one establishes ritual practices while violating the meaning of ritual, one departs from the Dao. If one devotes oneself to making music but loses harmony, one turns away from the meaning of music. Being directed by external things may be understandable; but when laws in turn direct people and violate the principles of good government, they go beyond the proper path. Therefore, the scripture says: “The Dao that can be spoken of and fixed is not the eternal, unchanging Dao.”

Laozi says: The ancient sage kings observed the celestial signs above and examined the earth below, taking people’s circumstances as the basis for governing. They harmonized the Yin-Yang energies and ensured that the four seasons followed their proper courses. They assessed the fertility of mountains, hills, plains, and marshes, and determined the uses suited to different elevations and terrains. On this basis, they organized production, increased material resources, relieved the people’s hunger and cold, and prevented illness and disaster.

They established rites and music in accordance with affairs among people, and promoted benevolence and righteousness to regulate human relationships. They also took account of the distinct qualities of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) to establish the bonds of affection between fathers and sons, allowing families to take shape. By distinguishing the clear and turbid tones of the five notes and referring to the pattern by which the six Lü—ancient yang pitch standards within a system of twelve tones—generate one another, they established the duty between ruler and minister, enabling the state to be governed. They examined the order of the first, middle, and final months of each season to establish the norms between elder and younger, and set up official posts. The sage kings also divided the territory into regions, established provinces and commanderies, granted fiefs and governed them separately, and founded academies to educate the people. These were the basic principles for governing all under Heaven.

These are the six principles of governing all under Heaven: when they follow the Great Dao, the principles can be put into practice; when they turn away from the Great Dao, the principles fall into disuse. Nothing expands without ever contracting, or flourishes without ever declining. Only a sage can bring things to flourish without letting them descend into ruin.

The sages first created music to settle the spirit, put an end to excess and depravity, and help people return to their nature. In times of decline, however, music became unrestrained and failed to return to the right path. People became absorbed in sounds and sensual pleasures, disregarded proper laws, and passed this climate on to later generations, eventually bringing their states to ruin. The sages first composed writings to manage the affairs of the day: the foolish could use them to avoid forgetting, and the wise could use them to record events. When institutions fell into decline, however, writings were used to fabricate deceitful and false arguments, excuse the guilty, and instead bring the innocent to execution. The sages first built parks and enclosures—grounds for rites and training—to provide what the ancestral temples required and to select soldiers and prepare for unexpected events. In times of decline, however, these grounds became places for riding and hunting, disrupting the people’s farming seasons and exhausting their strength.

The sage kings honored the worthy and capable in order to promote education fairly and bring justice to legal proceedings. They placed the worthy in important posts and assigned capable people to suitable duties, so that their benevolence would benefit the people and the multitude would be grateful for their De (Virtue/Power). In times of decline, people formed cliques for private gain and colluded with one another. Each group recommended those close to it, abandoned public justice in pursuit of private profit, and made recommendations to one another inside and outside the court. The corrupt and wicked took office, while the worthy withdrew and no longer came forward.

The way Heaven and Earth operate is that once things reach an extreme, they turn in the opposite direction; when gain becomes excessive, it turns into loss. Therefore, when sages govern in response to abuses, they reform institutions, and when one task is completed, they make new arrangements. The benefit of institutions lies in their proper balance; their danger lies in power escaping restraint.

The principles by which sages govern the world are these: without putting rites and righteousness in order, a sense of integrity and shame cannot be established; without that sense among the people, they cannot be governed. If people do not understand rites and righteousness, laws and commands cannot be impartial. If good conduct is not honored and what is ugly is not rejected, people will not be drawn toward rites and righteousness. Without laws and commands, a state cannot be governed; without understanding rites and righteousness, laws and commands cannot be properly applied. Laws can punish those who are unfilial, but punishment cannot make people filial. They can punish theft, but penalties cannot make people honest.

When a sage king holds power, he makes clear what he approves and disapproves, setting an example for everyone. He guides people through praise and criticism, draws near to and promotes the worthy, and distances and dismisses the unworthy. In this way, punishments can be set aside and need not be used. He brings rites and righteousness to full order and appoints people of virtue. Thus, the most outstanding people in the realm can serve as the Three Dukes; the most outstanding people in a province can serve as the Nine Ministers; the most outstanding people in a state can serve as the twenty-seven senior officials; and the most outstanding people in a district can serve as the eighty-one junior officers. Official posts are established and duties assigned; the worthy and capable are appointed, and the corrupt are excluded. They become the ruler’s aides and eyes and ears, coordinating the people and bringing stability to the four quarters.

Those whose abilities surpass ten thousand people are called “the elite”; those who surpass a thousand are called “the outstanding”; those who surpass a hundred are called “the exceptional”; and those who surpass ten are called “the capable.” Those who understand the principles governing Heaven and Earth and the workings of human affairs, whose breadth of mind can accommodate many people, whose kindness can bring peace to distant regions, and whose wisdom can weigh changing circumstances are “the elite.” Those whose virtue can educate the people, whose conduct accords with righteousness, whose trustworthiness can win the people’s confidence, and whose insight can see the circumstances of those below are “the outstanding.” Those whose conduct can serve as a model, whose wisdom can judge difficult questions, whose trustworthiness allows them to keep their word, whose integrity enables them to divide wealth fairly, and whose actions are worthy of imitation and words are reasonable are “the exceptional.” Those who perform their duties without slackening, uphold righteousness without forming cliques, do not evade danger for the sake of safety, and do not covet what is profitable are “the capable.”

This is the method for selecting talent and the basis for recognizing it. Anyone who possesses any one of these abilities can be appointed; someone who possesses all these qualities is a sage. The elite, the outstanding, the exceptional, and the capable each take up posts suited to the extent of their abilities. Responsibilities extend from the fundamentals to the details, important posts direct secondary ones, and those above and below work together. In this way, people throughout the realm can unite in turning toward the right path, leaving greed and pettiness behind and moving toward benevolence and righteousness. Educating the people in this way is as easy as wind bending grass.

If unworthy people are made to govern the worthy, even severe punishments cannot stop them from committing crimes and breaking the law. The weak cannot control the strong, and the feeble cannot command the robust: this is the natural order of things in Heaven and Earth. Therefore, sages recommend the worthy to accomplish their aims, while unworthy rulers recommend people like themselves. By observing whom a ruler recommends, one can see whether the government is well ordered or chaotic; by examining the company a ruler keeps, one can judge whether that ruler is worthy.

When sages appoint people, they assign posts according to each person’s abilities and do not let a post and its demands fall out of alignment. Then all under Heaven can be at peace.

Laozi says: Pursuing elaborate ritual refines people’s nature and suppresses their genuine feelings. Rules forbid what the eyes wish to see; rites and laws restrain what the heart delights in. People must make every movement conform to ceremony, bowing and lowering their heads in greeting. Even when hungry, they must endure without eating; even when wine is set before them, they must not drink. Their outward conduct is constrained, while inwardly they are troubled and oppressed. Such rites and laws suppress the harmony of Yin and Yang and force people to go against their nature and vital instincts, so that they live their whole lives like mourners.

Why does this happen? Because these practices do not examine why people develop desires; they only forbid people from satisfying them. They do not examine why people feel joy; they only prevent people from enjoying it. This is like confining wild animals without mending the fence, while trying only to suppress their instinct to escape; or like a river rushing onward while someone tries to block its waters with their hands. Thus, if you open the gates to people’s desires and then hurry to deal with the problems that follow, in the end you cannot put things right.

The flaws of rites and music emerged, and affected sentiment appeared, because people did not begin at the root—with freedom from desire and pleasure—but instead focused only on restraining desire and preventing enjoyment. As a result, desire could not be brought to an end, nor pleasure forbidden. When pleasure is constantly suppressed, it turns to abandon; when rites and laws constantly bind people, they make them listless. This is like opening the enclosure and letting the wild animals out, or digging a river channel while trying to block the current. Once people lose their original nature, they fall into confusion and find it hard to return.

Rites and laws curb feelings and close off desires, making people restrain themselves through ritual and righteousness. Even when distress knots up their hearts, and their bodies and nature have needs for food and drink, they must still force themselves to endure. Thus no one can enjoy the full span of life. Rites and laws confine people, preventing them from following their nature. They go against people’s feelings and nature, demanding that they act by force, and so damage their natural lifespan.

Rites and laws cannot make people cease to have desires; they can only suppress desire for a time. Music cannot make people cease to feel joy; it can only limit their enjoyment. Making everyone under Heaven fear punishment and dare not steal—how could that be better than making people have no wish to steal in the first place? If greed is not stirred up, why build barriers against it? If wealth is not hoarded, there is no need to guard against theft. So when people know that something is of no use to them, even the greedy will give it up; when they do not know what use it has, even the honest may be unwilling to yield it to others.

People lose their states, die at another’s hands, and are mocked by all under Heaven, often because of desire. The harm caused by desire reaches this far. If people knew that a fan in winter and a fur coat in summer were of no use to them, then all things would be like dust, no longer worth clinging to. The Dao brings about what is done through Wuwei (non-action); calamity, by contrast, falls to those who are driven by desire.

Thus, pouring hot water over water to stop it boiling only makes it boil more fiercely. Those who understand the root need only remove the source of the fire. To draw close to the Dao, nothing is better than reducing desire; to stop the boiling, the key is to take away the firewood.

Laozi says: Acting in accord with human nature is called the Dao (the Way); preserving one’s inborn nature is called De (Virtue/Power). Only after people have lost their nature do they begin to exalt benevolence and righteousness. Once benevolence and righteousness are established, the Dao and De decline in turn. When the ways of sincerity and simplicity have dispersed, ritual and music are used to adorn outward appearances. As soon as ideas of right and wrong arise, the people become confused. When pearls and jade grow precious, people throughout the world begin to fight over them.

When the Dao and De have declined, benevolence and righteousness alone cannot restrain human feelings, and ritual and music cannot curb human desires. When one person esteems these things, the people rush to imitate them, and society falls into disorder.

Ritual distinguishes the honored from the lowly, and the noble from the base. Righteousness harmonizes human relationships among ruler and subject, father and son, elder and younger brothers, and husband and wife. In times of decline and disorder, ritual becomes a matter of outwardly respectful exchanges. Those who practice righteousness give away wealth, but in doing so also establish distinctions of rank and status. The result is that rulers and subjects blame one another, and resentment arises among family members.

When water gathers, it breeds creatures that devour one another; when earth accumulates, beasts that feed on their own kind appear. When ritual and music become mere ornament, they too breed deceit and hypocrisy. This is like setting oneself on fire or drowning oneself in water. Ritual and righteousness do not in themselves harm human nature, just as water and fire have no intention of harming people. Used in accord with the right way, they bring good fortune; used against it, they bring disaster.

Governance in a declining age does not focus on nurturing what is needed to sustain life. Instead, it thins the world’s ways of sincerity, disperses its simple nature, and leaves the people’s minds and spirits in turmoil, making what is clear and upright seem impure. People’s lives, minds, and spirits all become unsettled as they hurry after gain and pursue their own aims; trust is destroyed as well. People lose their nature, laws and righteousness work against each other, and conduct and profit come into conflict, while rich and poor struggle fiercely against one another. In such a society, even the distinction between ruler and slave is no longer enough to explain what is happening.

When people have wealth to spare, they yield to one another; when they lack it, they fight over it. Yielding gives rise to ritual and righteousness, while rivalry leads to violence and disorder. Thus, the more desires there are, the harder it is to put things in order; the less satisfaction people find in what they seek, the longer their conflicts continue. When the world is at peace, even people of low status can remain upright and cannot be tempted by profit. When the world is in chaos, even exemplary people may act wickedly, and laws cannot stop them.

Laozi says: The rulers of a declining age cut through mountains and quarry stone, searching for gold and jade; they split open mussels and oysters to find pearls, and smelt copper and iron, yet allow nothing to grow and flourish. They cut open the bellies of pregnant animals and set fire to the countryside; they destroy nests and smash eggs. So the phoenix no longer comes, and the qilin no longer appears.

They build wooden platforms, burn forests to hunt, and drain lakes and marshes to catch fish. They heap up earth to make mounds for dwellings, dig wells for water, dredge rivers into ponds, build walls for defense, and pen wild animals in captivity. As a result, Yin-Yang falls out of balance and the seasons lose their order. Thunder and lightning destroy things; hail and frost bring disaster. Living things wither and perish before their time, and more than half are harmed. Even in summer, plants may wither.

The rulers of a declining age split stone to seek jade and open mussels for pearls; they burn the countryside and drain lakes and marshes, cut open the bellies of pregnant animals, and destroy eggs. Indulging their desires and coveting pleasures of music and beauty, they ultimately bring discord between Heaven and Earth, leaving all things with nowhere to dwell in peace. Thunder and lightning serve as warnings to them, while frost and hail bring down calamity. These are not the fault of the people under Heaven; they are the crime of the ruler alone.

The cities of Xia Jie and Yin Zhou were not lacking in height, nor were their stores of jade and silk, their beautiful women, or their full granaries. Yet before long their clans were wiped out and their ancestral sacrifices came to an end. They themselves died at others’ hands and became a laughingstock for all under Heaven. Is this not grievous? Thus it is said: “Heaven’s scrutiny is not far away; the histories of the Xia and Yin dynasties are proof.”

Three rivers ran dry, their currents cut off. People divided mountains, rivers, and valleys, and set boundaries. When the Zhou dynasty declined, the Three Rivers dried up. When the state of Jin weakened, Mount Shalu collapsed. When a state is about to flourish, auspicious signs are sure to appear; when it is about to perish, calamities and anomalies are sure to appear.

Counting the population and assigning people ranks and quotas; setting up devices and defenses; prescribing clothing colors to distinguish high from low; judging who is worthy and who is not; and enforcing rewards and punishments—these practices give rise to war and conflict, and then to the killing of the innocent and the punishment of the blameless. Heaven and Earth are then compelled to undergo change, and people and all living things cannot escape disaster and danger.

Laozi says: When the world is about to fall into ruin and the people’s lives are threatened, it is like the rise of Yin energy: those in power become confused and cannot distinguish right from wrong. Then innocent people are slaughtered and the guiltless punished. Heaven and Earth are consequently forced to undergo change, and people and all things in the world cannot escape calamity.

Laozi also says: When the world is about to fall into ruin and the people’s lives are threatened, it is like the rise of Yin energy. Those in power are benighted and unclear. The Dao is abandoned and no one puts it into practice; virtue fades and is no longer displayed. Actions run contrary to the principles of Heaven, and decrees go against the cycles of the seasons. Spring and autumn lose their harmony, and Heaven and Earth no longer bestow their grace. The ruler occupies his position but cannot bring stability; the high ministers withdraw into silence. The officials try to read the ruler’s intentions and break with convention, distancing themselves from their own kin to protect themselves. Wicked people flatter and ingratiate themselves, secretly eager to plot. They fan the arrogance of an overbearing ruler, making his conduct still more chaotic, while others take advantage of the situation and help bring these things about.

Thus ruler and ministers fall out and cease to be close; kin grow distant and no longer support one another. Fields lie without crops, and travelers hurry along the roads. Accumulated wealth may be squandered, and precious jade is hard to keep safe. Whenever a matter arises, people repeatedly consult the tortoiseshell oracle; every day they use milfoil stalks for divination. The realm cannot be brought under one rule. The feudal lords each establish different laws, their customs clash, and they abandon what is fundamental and turn away from the right path. They make the Five Punishments—the five forms of punishment used in ancient times—ever harsher, and fight one another over petty gains. The people are slaughtered, and the dead number more than half the population. Wars follow one another without end; when cities are attacked, innocents are killed indiscriminately, and stability is overturned while those in high positions are put in peril. They build massive battering rams and raise towering fortifications, driving soldiers into a land of death to fight powerful enemies. Of a hundred who set out on campaign, often only one returns. Rulers seek only empty fame and the expansion of their territory, annexing other states. Corpses cover the fields, numbering in the hundreds of thousands; the old and weak who die of hunger and cold are beyond counting.

From then on, people throughout the realm could no longer live out their lives in peace or follow their customary ways. Arrogant rulers of the final age relied on their power to expand their lands, exhausting the people’s lives and fighting over petty gains. Corpses littered the ground and rivers of blood flowed; there was not a moment’s peace, and this continues to the present day. Can this truly be called a world governed by the Dao?

Wise sages rise up, taking the Dao and virtue as their foundation and benevolence and righteousness as their support. Those nearby are transformed and put their abilities to use; those far away are moved by their virtue. The realm is thereby brought under one rule, and their descendants assist in governing it from generation to generation. The sages dismiss the slanderous and deceitful, quiet pointless disputes, abolish harsh laws, do away with complicated and oppressive administration, block rumors, and close off avenues for factions that scheme for private gain. They do not let clever devices disrupt the ordinary way; they follow fundamental principles, set aside stubborn preconceptions and contrivances, and allow all things to return to their roots.

Sages cannot create the right time; when the time comes, they can seize the opportunity, and so their work does not end midway. When sages see the moment and encounter the right time, they rise with resolve, restore order to the realm, suppress violent forces, and shelter the people. When Heaven is about to entrust someone with a great responsibility, it will not let the work be cut short midway. In other words, there will surely be a ruler capable of bearing this responsibility.

Laozi said: The Feng River is very deep, reaching ten ren, yet it does not allow dust or grime to pollute it. The metal and stone in its water can be seen clearly from the bank, not because the river is too shallow, but because it is so clear. Fish, turtles, and flood dragons do not wish to dwell in it. This means that when water is perfectly clear, fish will not come to swim in it; when a person scrutinizes everything too closely, people will not gather around them. Grain cannot grow on bare rock, and deer do not live on a barren mountain, because there is nowhere to hide or settle.

Therefore, in governing affairs, if one mistakes harshness for discernment, coercion for cleverness, severe punishment of subordinates for loyalty, and the frequent use of schemes for achievement, it is like making leather too taut: in the end, it will inevitably fail and tear apart. Governing through harsh scrutiny is precisely what brings about decline; forcing expansion will inevitably lead to rupture. When government is lenient and restrained, the people are simple and settled; when its orders are minute and severe, the people are distressed and thrown into disorder. If those above scrutinize too closely, those below cannot live in peace.

Laozi said: Govern the state by the constant Dao, and direct warfare through expedient methods. First place yourself beyond defeat, then seek to defeat the enemy. To fail to put your own affairs in order while attacking the disorder of others is like using fire against fire or water against water: things of the same kind cannot regulate one another. Therefore, use different strategies to meet different circumstances: meet agitation with stratagem, and stillness with motion; meet disorder with order, scarcity with abundance, and fatigue with rest. The orthodox and the unorthodox work together, like Water, Fire, Metal, and Wood restraining one another. Used well, they can meet every circumstance.

Thus, when virtue is equal, the larger force prevails over the smaller; when strength is equal, the clever can subdue the dull; when schemes are equal, the side with a plan can capture the side without one. This shows that the orthodox and the unorthodox, the worthy and the foolish, contend with one another. When the two sides are equal in strength, the one skilled at leading a multitude can prevail; when strength is equal, the wise can subdue the foolish; when schemes are equal, the side with a plan can capture the side without one. These plans and strategies are all means of overcoming one another: each side competes with and seeks to control the other. This is the art of adapting to changing circumstances.

When both sides are evenly matched in strength, the one who can rally others often prevails. When strength is equal, the wise can defeat the foolish; when wisdom is also equal, the side with a plan can capture and control the side without one. Numbers, plans, and the like are all means of competing, prevailing, and gaining control over one another. None of these is the Dao—the fundamental principle spoken of in Daoism—but rather a technique of expedient adaptation. What is discussed here is the use of expedient measures in response to changing circumstances.