《唐玄宗御制道德真经疏》Vol. 1

Laozi was the inner honorific title of the Supreme Lord, the Dark Origin Emperor. The master of the profound and far-reaching Dao was born in the region of Yi and Bo. His dignified and venerable forebear was destined to bear the surname Li, becoming the founder of our Great Tang. He left teachings to guide the world and brought boundless blessings. Auspicious fortune endured through the ages, its generations succeeding one another like fruit on a spreading vine. The classic texts already record the details of his life and deeds.

Daoists call Laozi “Jade Dawn” (Yuchen) when he manifests in response to the world. Sima Qian described him as a reclusive gentleman, and Confucius once studied under him. While consulting the classics, Confucius recorded the breadth and depth of Laozi’s discussions of ritual, and praised his De (Virtue) for being as elusive and transformative as a dragon’s. This shows that Confucius had no criticism of Laozi.

Laozi lived for many years in the Zhou dynasty. Later, he prepared to travel west to the frontier regions to spread the Dao. Yin Xi, the guardian of the pass, asked him to write a book, so Laozi composed the two-part Dao De Jing, explaining how the Dao and De give rise to and nurture the myriad things. Nothing of these teachings is left unaddressed in the book, and their most essential meaning is contained within it.

After serving as an official in the Zhou dynasty for many years, Laozi prepared to travel to the western frontier. Yin Xi, the keeper of the pass, asked him to write a book. Laozi then composed two parts, the Dao Jing and the De Jing, setting out the source of the Dao, De, and the growth and nurturing of all things. The book addresses everything comprehensively, but its main concerns are cultivating oneself and governing the state.

To govern the state, one should abandon self-importance, boasting, and superficial display, and use Wuwei (non-action) and few words as means of instruction. Thus the text says: “The Dao always follows its own nature, yet nothing is left undone. If the lords and kings could hold fast to this principle, all things would transform and grow of themselves.” It also says: “When I do not act recklessly, the people transform themselves; when I do not meddle, the people become prosperous of themselves; when I cherish stillness, the people set themselves right; when I have no desires, the people return to simplicity.”

To cultivate oneself, one should lessen selfishness and restrain desire, making an empty mind and inner fullness one’s chief aims. Thus the text says: “Always remain free of desire, and you will observe the subtlety of the Dao.” It also says: “Do not prize rare goods, and do not display things that stir desire.” And: “Close the openings of the senses and shut the gates through which outside temptations enter; blunt the sharpness and untangle the confusion.” Both self-cultivation and governing the state should take softness, humility, and stillness as their principles. Thus the text says: “The soft overcomes the hard; the weak overcomes the strong.” It also says: “Know strength, yet hold to weakness.” This is the general meaning of the book.

As for fathoming the principles of things and fully realizing one’s nature, severing external ties and quieting scattered thoughts, applying the teachings flexibly in practice, sitting in meditation and forgetting oneself, dispelling the images reflected in the mind, and reducing step by step until one enters the realm of mystery upon mystery—these matters can scarcely be conveyed in words. Laozi’s teachings are all-encompassing, their writing concise, their meaning clear, and their language plain. For this reason, first-time readers often think they have already entered the heart of the teaching. Only after studying it deeply and reflecting on it repeatedly do they understand that even something as fine as an autumn hair is almost impossible to describe, and that what they have grasped is less than one ten-thousandth.

There is a unified existence that was already present before Heaven and Earth took shape. I do not know its original name, so I gave it the courtesy name “Dao.” Forced to name it, I call it “the Great.” Thus “Great Dao” is merely a makeshift name for what is supremely still and empty, mysterious, and fundamental. The name “Dao” describes how it runs through all things and enables them to come into being.

The Zhuangzi says, “At the beginning, there was nothing.” Here, “nothing” refers to the mysterious emptiness. It also says, “There was neither being nor name,” meaning that at that time no makeshift names had yet been established. Hence the Daodejing says, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” Later, it was provisionally called the Dao that runs through all things, so the text also says, “The named is the mother of the myriad things.”

The Zhuangzi also says, “That by which the myriad things come into being is called De.” Here, De means “to receive.” The many transformations between Heaven and Earth and the arising of all things depend on that mysterious foundation. All things receive life from it; this is called De. Therefore the Daodejing says, “The Dao gives them life; De nourishes them.” We can see from this that Dao is the foundation of De, and De is the expression of Dao’s activity.

The Daodejing is divided into two parts, the upper and lower, because it discusses Dao first and De afterward. Yet the terms “substance” and “function” can be distinguished in speech, while the foundation and activity they refer to cannot truly be separated. Hence the text says, “They emerge together but have different names; together they are called the mysterious.” In the names by which they appear, they seem to be two; in their common source, they form an undivided whole. This is what it means to say that their names can be distinguished, but their foundation cannot be divided.

Thus, the upper part says, “This is called profound De,” as well as “the form of great De,” “Those who possess De are one with De,” and “constant De does not depart.” The lower part says, “Only after losing the Dao does one have De,” “Reversal is the movement of the Dao,” “The Dao gives birth to the One,” and “The Great Dao is very level.” From this we can see that the text alternates between discussing Dao as foundation and De as its activity, gradually making their meaning clear. There is no need to confine these topics rigidly to one part or the other.

“Dao” is an imperfect name for the ultimate emptiness and stillness, the subtle source of all things. The character “Dao” also means passage or road; it is used at the opening to point to the purpose of the whole text. “The Dao that can be spoken of” means that this subtle source runs through and brings forth the myriad things: it is the way from which they all come, and so it can be called the Dao. “It is not the constant Dao” means that its activity in bringing forth the myriad things has no fixed form. “Dao” is only an imperfect name and cannot encompass all the ways it manifests. At times it appears vast; at others, it moves without ceasing, seems distant, or feels close. It does not always take the same form.

A “name” that can be spoken is not a constant, unchanging name.

A “name” is a designation given to a thing. Those who have attained the Dao also use names; the first character of a scripture’s opening line can likewise indicate the central theme of the whole work. “Can be named” means that when something functions, it can be given a name. “Not a constant, unchanging name” means that when the Dao of “attaining the One” operates in Heaven, it is called “clarity”; when it operates on Earth, it is called “stillness.” The Dao itself does not differ, but its name varies according to how it functions. So it cannot be said to have just one fixed name forever.

The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.

“The nameless” refers to the state before the transformations of the myriad things had begun, when nothing had yet been forced into words and names. The Zhuangzi says, “At the Great Beginning, there was nonbeing.” In this primordial state, there were neither distinct things nor names. The subtle essence of the Dao gives rise to primordial Qi, opening up Heaven and Earth. Heaven and Earth depend on each other and become the starting point for the myriad things; hence the saying, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” This corresponds to the Book of Changes, in which the Supreme Ultimate gives rise to the Two Forms. In the commentary, the term “origin” means “beginning,” according to the Erya.

The named is the mother of the myriad things.

“The named” refers to the Dao’s functioning and bringing things into being, at which point they can be referred to by names. As transformations unfold and the various kinds of things come into being, the Dao’s subtle essence runs through them for people to draw upon. It continually nourishes the myriad things, and so is called the “mother.” Here, “mother” carries the sense of nurturing and flourishing. Yet “the nameless” and “the named” are simply distinctions the sage uses, based on function, to explain the essence and its manifestations. The Dao itself is not constrained by being “named” or “nameless.”

Therefore, one should remain free of desire in order to perceive the Dao’s subtlety, and remain in a state of desire in order to observe the boundaries of things.

“Desire” is a thought that arises when human nature is stirred—in other words, when the mind is drawn out by external things. When a person is often free of desire, the mind and nature become quiet; turning inward to contemplate the source of the Dao, one can perceive its subtle essence. “Boundary” refers to the limits and signs that appear when things manifest.

Desire is the thought that arises when one’s nature and feelings are stirred by things outside oneself. When people are often free of desire, their inner nature becomes quiet and clear, allowing them to turn inward and observe the source of the Dao. They can then see the subtle root. When desire arises in response to the surrounding world, however, one’s nature is disturbed. Observing the root with desire, one loses peace and can see only the outer limits of things. “Jiao” means boundary.

Another interpretation takes “desire” to mean having thoughts or concerns in the mind. When the mind holds thoughts and concerns, people establish teachings on that basis. To be often free of desire means to follow the Dao of quiet clarity, leave behind distinctions made through words, and hold nothing in the mind; in this way, one can realize the Dao’s subtlety. To be often subject to desire means that the Dao’s root expresses itself in action, using words to establish teachings, responding to all things and making their principles clear. Through teaching the world, one helps people each find their proper place. “Jiao” can also mean a destination or direction of return.

In the phrase “these two arise from the same source but have different names,” “these two” refers to the things mentioned earlier. What can be explained in words and what can be named, the nameless and the named, the state without desire and the state with desire: each forms a pair, which is why they are called “two.” All come from the subtle root. They emerge from that root and receive different names according to how they function.

“They are the same; both are called profound.” “Profound” means deep and subtle. Seen in terms of their manifest functions, they have different names: this is the root expressing itself outward. Seen in terms of their shared root, they are deep and subtle: this is gathering the many manifestations back into the root. Returning to the root is what makes them profound, and so they are called “profound.”

Within the profound lies something still more profound: it is the gateway through which all subtle principles unfold.

“Gathering the traces and returning to the root” means drawing all external manifestations back to their source; this is called profound subtlety. But if one clings to this “subtlety,” external manifestations will arise again. It is no different from the various terms discussed earlier. Thus “again mysterious” is used to dissolve attachment to the “mysterious,” so that one does not remain caught in it and lets go of both root and trace. This is called “abiding nowhere”: clinging to no state at all. From this, one can awaken fully and transcend.

The commentary says, “the causes of intention do not arise”: the causes that give rise to thoughts and distinctions no longer arise. The Scripture of the Western Ascension says, “They emerge together, yet have different names and forms; each gives rise to the grounds for intention.” Now that discriminating thoughts no longer arise, one is in accord with the mysterious and subtle.

“To have no desire for desirelessness” means that a person seeks desirelessness in order to bring about a state of having no desires. But as long as one is still seeking desirelessness, one has not left desire behind. Now there is neither desire nor attachment to “desirelessness”; one sets things aside layer by layer until everything is forgotten. This is what is meant by “the causes of intention do not arise”; it may also be called complete forgetfulness. To contemplate in accordance with this right view is to enter “the many mysteries.” Though the mysterious and subtle take many forms, they all emerge through this gate; hence it is called “the gate of the many mysteries.”

Chapter Two: When All Under Heaven Know

The previous chapter explained how the root of the mysterious and subtle gives rise to change, and how two ways of contemplation differ. This chapter explains how, once the Dao’s undivided simplicity is dispersed, it appears in myriad differences for various reasons, leading people to pursue external things. Pursuing external things brings continual drift, while skillful teaching can guide people back to the root. The chapter therefore begins by pointing out that people’s judgments of beauty and goodness arise from deluded distinctions. It then explains how being and nonbeing contend with each other, and concludes with the principles of the sage, hoping that people will understand how to return to simplicity.

When everyone under heaven recognizes beauty as beauty, ugliness appears alongside it. When everyone under heaven recognizes goodness as goodness, what is called evil appears alongside it.

The world, broadly speaking, means all people within the expanse covered by Heaven. What people find pleasing to the heart is called “beautiful”; what they do and put into practice is called “good.” In other words, people everywhere take what they like in their hearts to be beautiful and what they personally practice to be good. Thus, when speaking of sweet flavors, they disparage what is pungent; when they favor red, they look down on white. People contend with one another and compete to judge what is right and wrong because desire stirs in the heart, and so beauty and ugliness arise one after another.

The sage knows that beauty and ugliness have no fixed authority; both come from deluded feelings and thoughts. Since these feelings and thoughts are deluded, they cannot remain constant. Hence the phrase “the ugliness has passed.” Here, “passed” is a grammatical particle. The commentary’s phrase “the wondrous and the putrid” comes from the Zhuangzi: people regard what they consider beautiful as wondrous and what they dislike as putrid.

Being and nonbeing give rise to one another,

Commentary: This explains that the nature of both being and nonbeing is empty. “Being” does not exist independently; it appears through “nonbeing,” so ordinary people assume that nonbeing can produce being. “Nonbeing,” too, does not exist independently; it appears through “being,” so ordinary people assume that being can produce nonbeing. That is why the two are said to “give rise to one another.” In fact, although being and nonbeing stand in opposition, neither truly produces the other. Their supposed mutual arising is merely an account formed through deluded thoughts and attachment. Likewise, beauty and ugliness do not arise from any fixed nature, because both are empty. The sage wishes to free people from confusion and attachment, and therefore explains these six kinds of mistaken understanding one by one.

Difficulty and ease take shape in relation to one another,

Commentary: This explains that the principle of difficulty and ease is also empty. What is difficult for one person may be easy for another, and the reverse is also true.

Difficulty and ease take shape in relation to one another,

Commentary: This explains that the principle of difficulty and ease is also empty. What is difficult for one person may be easy for another. For example, a carpenter finds it easy to work with wood but difficult to work with clay, while a potter finds clay easy to work with and wood difficult. Thus difficulty and ease take shape in relation to one another. If everyone faced the same difficulty, there would be no such thing as ease; if everyone faced the same ease, there would be no such thing as difficulty. Difficulty and ease have no fixed substance; they are merely names people assign. This is what is meant by the emptiness of phenomena: things and the names by which they are known have no fixed, unchanging nature. Those who understand this no longer cling to skill and clumsiness, and the labels of difficulty and ease fall away. The same is true of the absence of any fixed standard for beauty and ugliness.

Long and short appear in relation to one another,

This passage explains that distinctions such as long and short, high and low, sounds and silences, and what comes before or after only take shape through comparison or connection. They have no fixed, unchanging standard.

Long and short are relative: something appears short because there is something long, and long because there is something short. A wild duck’s legs are not short by nature; they only seem short beside a crane’s. Nor are a crane’s legs absolutely long; they only seem long beside a wild duck’s. If you lengthened a wild duck’s legs, it would be distressed; if you shortened a crane’s, the crane would grieve. People judge length and shortness much as they judge beauty and ugliness: their standards are not fixed, but often arise from feelings and distinctions.

High and low are also relative. Something is called high because there is something lower than it, and something is called low because there is something higher. If we keep asking what truly counts as high or low, we find that these terms have no fixed standard. Positions in the world also change: someone who holds a high position today may occupy a low one later, and people’s ranks can shift in relation to one another. This shows that high and low have no permanent place.

Different sounds must blend together to form a melody. A tune does not come from any single sound alone, but from many sounds joined together. Things in the world, too, often arise from the coming together of various conditions, and so have no independent, unchanging substance. To insist on assigning them fixed judgments of beauty or ugliness is not a clear-sighted view.

What comes before and after is named according to sequence and succession. The sun and moon take turns, and each new day follows the one before it. When a person takes a step, which step counts as the first or the next depends on the observer and the order of events. Before and after are names that arise from relationships; they have no fixed starting point of their own. The three periods of time—past, future, and present—are constantly changing and flowing from moment to moment, so they, too, have no permanently fixed names.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and teaches without relying on words.

Thus Laozi uses the following words to clarify the meaning of the passage above: Those who deliberately show off their cleverness and practice deceit cannot be said to embody Wuwei (non-action), even if they sit silently. Those who preserve their natural simplicity can remain inwardly at ease even while directing and carrying out affairs all day. The sage understands that the nature of all things is empty, and so does not cling to them or boast. To govern the world, one should therefore cast aside ostentation and falsehood and employ people of sincere and generous virtue. The people are transformed by example, each content in their place and undisturbed. Is this not Wuwei? The sage’s words accord with the hearts of people everywhere; so even when speaking throughout a lifetime, it is as though nothing had been said. Is this not teaching without words?

All things arise and act, and the sage does not interfere.

“Act” means to be active; “decline” means to refuse or decline. The sage is skilled at teaching without deliberately imposing his will, yet the people do not recognize that their accomplishments are due to him. They live freely and at ease, each attending to their own affairs, and feel no need to thank the sage. Thus people beat the earth drum and pat their bellies as they sing, forgetting the ruler’s beneficence. This describes the people forgetting the sage’s virtue and merit.

The sage gives life to all things without claiming them as his own. He acts without relying on his accomplishments, and completes his work without taking credit for it.

The sage allows all things to follow their own nature and grow, without treating them as his possessions. He enables each thing to fulfill its purpose, without claiming its achievements as his own. Even when peace prevails throughout the world and blessings reach far and wide, the sage remains as cautious as at the beginning, never daring to grow complacent or slack. This is what it means for the sage to forget his own accomplishments. The commentary’s phrase “be more cautious each day” comes from the Book of Documents (Shangshu) and means to grow more cautious with each passing day.

Precisely because he takes no credit, his accomplishments do not disappear.

The sage does not claim merit as his own. Even as the achievements of peace continue to grow and its blessings spread ever farther, he remains as cautious as at the beginning, never daring to become complacent. This is what it means to forget one’s merit so that one’s accomplishments endure.

The sage is upright and steadfast in conduct, cautious from beginning to end, never slackening and never seeking ease or pleasure. His De (virtue) therefore grows day by day. Though he takes no credit, his accomplishments do not disappear; his beneficence extends throughout the world and brings it peace. Thus it is said: precisely because he takes no credit, his accomplishments do not disappear.

This chapter explains that when the worthy are not deliberately exalted and rare goods are not treated as precious, people are less inclined to compete and steal. Governance should follow the natural course, allowing people to return to simplicity.

“Esteem” means to honor, and “worthy” refers to people with ability. If a ruler deliberately elevates the able, people may try to win rank and recognition by embellishing themselves and pursuing fame. They gradually lose their true nature and are more likely to compete with one another. If a ruler guides the people through Wuwei (non-action), allowing each person to rest content in their proper place, things can proceed with the natural momentum of wind following the tiger and clouds following the dragon. Even in the reigns of Tang Yao and Yu Shun, worthy ministers served as their aides; Yi Yin and Lü Shang, too, were appointed to important posts at court. When everyone is content with their proper place and does not presumptuously seek more than their share, conflict naturally diminishes.

“Hard-to-obtain goods” refers to scarce and precious possessions. Each person has their own gifts and proper place. If people are not content with what they have and covet what lies beyond their share, they lose their natural simplicity and become consumed by desire. If people are allowed to follow their own nature and make full use of their abilities, they will have little desire to overstep their place and will not attach excessive value to rare goods. The text cites the Zhuangzi, which says that some practices that appear benevolent can in fact steal away people’s natural character and genuine nature, making them covet wealth and status. Another interpretation is that when rulers do not regard pearls, jade, and other treasures as precious, government becomes calm and the people are influenced in turn, with fewer desires for gain. When everyone knows contentment, they will not resort to theft.

When people stop chasing things that invite covetousness, their minds are no longer disturbed. Admiring cleverness and competing to display one’s abilities means seeing something to covet. Once desire arises, the mind naturally becomes unsettled. The sage does not glorify the pursuit of fame and profit or encourage people to seek recklessly for things beyond their proper station. People then encounter fewer things that stir greed, and their minds are no longer confused or disordered.

So the sage makes this the foundation of instruction both in governing the state and in cultivating oneself. What, then, is needed to govern the state? In the end, it is self-cultivation. Make the mind empty and still, make life sufficient, cut off excessive desires, set aside clever schemes, and follow nature without acting recklessly: then nothing will be left poorly governed.

“To empty the mind” means that when people are led along by external things, their thoughts are obscured by the disturbances of worldly life. If they can quiet the mind and preserve their true nature, desires and passions will not arise. When they do not arise, the mind naturally becomes empty and still. The Zhuangzi says, “In an empty room, brightness is born.” This means that when the mind is open and clear, one’s pure nature comes into view.

“To fill the belly”: here, “belly” conveys the sense of being full and having enough. When people feel content, they are less likely to covet more. When De is made abundant within, covetous desire does not arise. The commentary also cites the saying, “Stop when you are satisfied.” It means that when you have eaten enough, you stop and do not greedily eat more. These words come from the counsel given by Mo Rukuan to Wei Xianzi during the Spring and Autumn period, and are used to explain that people should know when they have enough.

“To weaken the will”: here, “will” means what the mind is set on or plans to pursue. It means making people’s aims gentle and humble, without stubbornly insisting on showing strength. When the mind is empty and still, the will too will not become domineering and grasping.

“To strengthen the bones”: the bones are the body’s supporting frame. When De is abundant within, people do not take greedily and are content with their lives; the body’s foundation is therefore strong.

The sage promotes the teaching of emptying the mind and filling the belly in the hope that the people will not compete through cleverness or give rise to covetous desires, and will be able to change naturally for the better. In this way, even those already skilled in cunning will not dare to use it recklessly.

The function of the Dao is empty and boundless; however it is used, it can never be filled. It is deep and still, as though it were the source of all things.

“Emptiness” here means void and empty. The Dao acts through emptiness, and the harmonious Qi between Heaven and Earth also moves through stillness and emptiness, bringing forth all things. Everything receives its function from it. In terms of its effects, all things may seem bright and vast; viewed in terms of emptiness, however, the Dao is never full. It is deep and silent, always the source of all things. The scripture says “as though” because the Dao has no fixed form, so it is not described as having a definite, unchanging appearance.

Blunt the sharpness; untangle the confusion.

“Dulling” means restraining; “sharpness” means keen and cutting; “dissolving” means dispersing; and “confusion” means turmoil. The Dao’s action is empty, still, and vast, and nothing can oppose it. Therefore, when people often contemplate the Dao’s balanced calm, they can rein in their competitive ambition and gradually quiet the turmoil in their affairs. This explains the Dao’s action through human self-cultivation.

A commentary says, “Worldly learning seeks restoration.” This comes from the “Cultivating Nature” chapter of the Zhuangzi: “Cultivate one’s nature amid the world, and rely on worldly learning to seek a return to one’s original state.” The meaning is that sharp ambition and restless confusion both arise from desire. When the mind rests on the Dao, turmoil dissolves; when one becomes immersed in worldly learning, entanglements instead deepen.

Dull the sharpness; dissolve the confusion. Be like light, without dazzling; be like dust, dwelling among all things. The Dao is deep and subtle: it seems to exist, yet is difficult to grasp.

The Dao’s action is empty, still, and universal, leaving nothing out. In the presence of light, it joins with light; in the world of dust, it blends with the world. It is everywhere, yet displays no fixed form. Its action can blend with light and dust, while its essential nature is deep, still, and unattached. That is why it is said to “seem to exist.”

“I do not know whose descendant the Dao is, yet it seems to have preceded the Thearch.”

Here, “I” is Lao Jun referring to himself, and “seems” means “appears to be.” Lao Jun says that he sees how the empty, still action of the Supreme Dao can generate the myriad things, but when he traces its origin, he cannot fathom it. The Dao is deep, still, and unattached, so its source cannot be identified; thus, he does not know what it is the source of. Yet the generation of the myriad things depends on the Dao, so the Dao seems to have existed before the Thearch.

The commentary explains that “Thearch” means the ruler who governs the generation and transformation of the myriad things. The Book of Changes says, “The Thearch emerges from Zhen,” and Wang Bi explains that the Thearch is the ruler who generates the myriad things and the source from which they flourish and grow. Another interpretation takes “appearing signs” to mean the manifestation of omens: the ruler of generation and transformation who manifests the forms of the myriad things is therefore called the “Image Thearch.”

Chapter Five: Heaven and Earth Are Not Benevolent

The previous chapter discussed the Dao’s profound nature and inexhaustible function, as well as following nature and governing through Wuwei (non-action). This chapter explains that favoring one side in one’s affection creates partiality and makes it difficult to extend that affection to everyone. It begins by comparing the world to straw dogs used in ritual sacrifice, showing that Heaven and Earth treat all things alike. It then compares the workings of Heaven and Earth to a bellows, whose emptiness and stillness allow its function to remain inexhaustible. Finally, it warns that excessive words can lead to frustration and counsels holding to balance.

“Heaven and Earth are not humane: they treat the myriad things as straw dogs. The sage is not humane: he treats the people as straw dogs.”

Here, “humane” refers to benevolence that extends universally, without distinguishing between those near and far. “Straw dogs” were figures made of straw and used in ancient sacrifices. Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang cites the Zhuangzi to explain that before a sacrifice, straw dogs were covered and adorned with embroidered cloths; after the ceremony, people took them apart and burned them as kindling. Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things without claiming to have done them a favor or asking them for anything in return. This is like people not imagining that a straw dog has earned merit by guarding the gate and barking simply because it was once used in a sacrifice. This is why Heaven and Earth are said to be “not humane.” A sage governing the people should act in the same way: not distributing kindness and favor to only some, but allowing the people to follow their own nature and live in peace. The commentary also cites the Book of Rites to explain that ancient people covered dogs when burying them. Its phrase “not loving only one’s own kin” points to the ideal in the “Liyun” chapter of the Book of Rites: loving more than just one’s own family.

“The space between Heaven and Earth—is it not like a bellows? Empty, yet never exhausted; set in motion, and ever more emerges.”

Is the space between Heaven and Earth not much like a bellows, an ancient device for blowing air? Though hollow inside, the bellows never run dry; once worked, they send out a steady stream of wind. The bellows here are a metaphor for the workings of Heaven and Earth: rooted in emptiness and stillness, they follow their natural course and bring forth life without end.

A “tuo” is a bellows, made of leather and used to fan a fire by blowing air into it. A “yue” is a flute. The passage says that Heaven and Earth can bring forth and nurture the myriad things without favoritism, just as a hollow bellows can send out air and a hollow flute can produce sound. They respond to the needs of whoever uses them, without private attachment to the myriad things. Thus, the more empty they are, the less their function is obstructed; the more they are worked, the more fully they give forth wind or sound.

This is a metaphor for a ruler who governs the world without bias, through a pure and generous transformation of De (Virtue/Power), while remaining open and composed. Such rule meets no obstruction. People are shaped by its influence in their daily lives, though they may not notice it. When the ruler acts, the influence of De continues to become evident.

Too much talk tends to bring obstacles at every turn. It is better to hold to the way of moderation.

The “many words” referred to here are words about caring for everyone. If one speaks at length but cannot put those words into practice in every circumstance, words and actions fall out of step, and affairs are hard to bring to completion. It is better, then, to set aside preconceptions and respond to things with an empty, still mind, holding to the way of moderation. In this way, everything can naturally be attended to fully. The commentary explains that “chou” means to respond. “Not responding” means that there are only empty words, with no corresponding action to carry them out.

Chapter Six: The Valley Spirit Never Dies

The previous chapter explained that care for all, when mixed with self-interest, leads to favoritism and cannot be practiced universally. This chapter explains that the utmost emptiness and stillness can respond to the myriad things naturally. Such responsiveness never runs out, and so the myriad things each find their proper place.

The opening introduces the “Valley Spirit,” using the function of a valley to explain how the Dao (the Way) operates. It then speaks of the “Mysterious Female,” describing the deep, subtle power of transformation as the mother of all things. Finally, it uses the image of something continuous and imperceptible to show how emptiness and stillness can respond without deliberate effort.

The Valley Spirit never dies; this is called the “Mysterious Female.”

“Valley Spirit” means that a valley answers sounds, just as the Great Dao responds to the myriad things: when something stirs a response, a response follows, through a wondrous and unfathomable process. “Spirit” refers to what cannot be measured or known; “never dies” means that it does not stop or rest. This unfathomable responsiveness of the Dao has never ceased, which is why it is said that the Valley Spirit never dies.

“Dark” means deep and hidden; “female” refers to motherhood. The Valley Spirit’s response to the myriad things is profound and difficult to describe, and all things receive nourishment from it. That is why it is called the “Mysterious Female.”

The gateway of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth and all things.

The function of the “Mysterious Female” is profound and subtle, beyond words; when something stirs it, it is sure to respond. All things are nourished and grow through it, so it is called the “Mysterious Female”—the hidden, deep source that gives life and nourishment.

The Mysterious Female responds whenever something stirs it, and its response becomes apparent through the stirrings of all things; thus it is called the “Gate.” Heaven and Earth are the greatest of formed things. Without the Mysterious Female’s function, Heaven and Earth would separate and fall apart. Heaven and Earth take “attaining the One”—acquiring the fundamental Dao that unifies them—as their basis; hence it is said to be their root.

“Continuous” means subtle and unceasing. The function of the empty and still Mysterious Female responds to all things without partiality. It is subtle and hard to perceive, so it is said to seem to exist; it is impartial, so its function never appears weary.

Chapter Seven: Heaven Is Long, Earth Endures

The previous chapter explained that the “Spirit of the Valley”—the Dao, empty and still like a valley and able to respond to all things—acts without limit. This chapter explains that Heaven and Earth endure because they are impartial. It opens by using Heaven and Earth as an analogy, then explains the principle through the Sage, and concludes with “being selfless, one fulfills oneself,” encouraging people to put this way into practice.

Heaven is long; Earth endures.

Heaven is marked by the movement and transformation of Qi, so it is called “long”; Earth is marked by form and matter, so it is called “enduring.”

Heaven and Earth can be long and enduring because they do not live for themselves while giving life to all things; therefore, they live on.

The text first poses a question and then answers it: Heaven and Earth cover and support all things and nurture every kind of living being. They do all this by relying on the profound fundamental Dao, without boasting of their achievement in creating and nurturing all things; therefore, they endure. Another interpretation is that “not living for themselves” means Heaven and Earth give life only to all things and seek no benefit for their own lives; therefore, they endure.

Therefore, the Sage puts himself last and thereby comes to the fore among all people; he sets himself aside and thereby preserves himself.

The highest goodness is like water.

Commentary: “Highest goodness” here means the highest good conduct a person can attain, while “like water” uses water as a metaphor. The realized person, whose cultivation has reached a high level, is calm and inwardly still, attached to nothing and making no deliberate show of doing good. By giving no thought to goodness, they do good naturally: this is the highest goodness. The conduct of the highest good is like water, as the following passages explain through both principles of cultivation and metaphor.

Water is skilled at nourishing all things, yet it does not compete with them. It dwells in low places that people dislike.

Commentary: Water is mild and cool; it spreads everywhere and moistens all things. Nourished, all things can grow. This is why water is said to benefit all things: it is its first virtue. Nothing in the world is more yielding than water. When calm, it can serve as a standard; when clear, it can reflect a person. As it flows, when it meets an obstacle, it follows the terrain and lets itself be guided, never competing with anything: this is its second virtue. Low places are often avoided by people, but water willingly settles in them and receives what is impure: this is its third virtue.

For this reason, water’s nature comes closest to the Dao (the Way).

“The great Dao is close at hand” means that water nourishes all things and shows how broadly it benefits them. It does not compete with anything for superiority, displaying gentleness and yieldingness. It flows toward low places and can contain impurities. The realized person fully embodies these three qualities of water. Acting in this way, one is not far from the Dao; hence the word “close.”

Abiding in a good place: Wherever the realized person dwells, that place can bring benefit, just as water flows over the earth and nourishes all things. The earth lies low, and water, too, naturally flows toward low places. This accords with the realized person’s humility and yieldingness, expressing the Dao’s softness. Hence, “abiding in a good place.”

A good heart is deep: The realized person’s heart is at ease in stillness, like clear, quiet water. When water settles, it becomes clear; when the heart is at rest, it can understand things. “Deep” means profound and tranquil. Hence, “a good heart is deep.”

A good way of giving is benevolent: The realized person is always ready to help others, and the good they give accords with benevolence. Like water moistening all things, they show no favoritism and make no distinctions based on likes or dislikes. Hence, “a good way of giving is benevolent.”

Good words are trustworthy: The person who has attained the highest state speaks truthfully and teaches others with honesty, without deception. Like a spring that flows through perilous terrain without changing its nature, they remain true to their word. Hence, “good words are trustworthy.” The commentary’s quotation, “Passing through danger without losing one’s trustworthiness,” comes from the statement on the Kan hexagram in the Zhouyi; it means that one remains trustworthy even when passing through danger.

Good governance brings order: “Governance” means setting things right. The realized person responds to affairs in accordance with Wuwei (non-action), setting an upright example that transforms things and guides all beings back to the right path. Once things are put right, they naturally come to order. Like water washing all things clean and calm, this is why it is said, “good governance brings order.”

Good work is done skillfully:

A perfected person—a person whose cultivation has reached a profound level—has a mind that is open, clear, and unobstructed by anything. Whatever they undertake, they handle with ease. Once they understand a situation, they can respond appropriately. This is called “illuminating understanding”: seeing clearly how things stand. It is like the nature of water. Guide it into a channel, and it becomes a river; block it, and it becomes a pond. It can bear boats and hold within it all things, as though it were empty space. There is nothing to which it cannot adapt. This is what it means to respond skillfully.

Action should accord with the time.

The perfected person’s mind is like an open valley, and like a mirror reflecting all things: when something outside stirs it, the mind responds in turn. This is like the nature of water: it thaws in spring and freezes in winter, waxing and waning with the seasons. Thus it is said, “Action should accord with the time.”

Because they do not contend with anything, they have no faults.

“Fault” means an error or failing. The perfected person acts by skillfully adapting and does not harm things outside themselves. They are modest and yielding, willing to bend in order to preserve what matters, and never strive to outdo or defeat others. Like water flowing with the terrain and turning along its course, they adapt to all things without opposing them, and so do not fall into error.

Chapter Nine: Holding and Filling

The previous chapter described how the perfected person acts gently and yields, and so has no faults. This chapter describes how ordinary people become immersed in desire and grow arrogant and complacent, thereby bringing misfortune upon themselves. It opens with the examples of holding something full and honing a blade, showing that such states are difficult to sustain. It then uses gold, jade, wealth, and rank to warn against greed. Finally, it concludes by advising people to withdraw once their work is done and their name is established, rather than cling to their achievements or claim the credit.

Holding something full is not as good as stopping in time.

“Hold” means to keep something in one’s grasp; “full” means filled to capacity; “stop” means to cease. People’s hearts cling endlessly to desire. They are never satisfied with what they acquire and always want to hold firmly to what they already have, making it grow ever greater until it is full. But accumulating possessions in this way becomes a burden, and regret and worry are sure to follow. Therefore, the sage advises: it is better to stop in time.

If you hone something to a sharp edge, it cannot stay sharp for long.

“To hone” means to measure or grind; “sharp” means keen. Immersed in desire and coveting wealth and advantage, ordinary people repeatedly calculate and hone their edge, hoping to make themselves even sharper. But this state cannot be sustained for long.

Excessive desire attracts the scrutiny of spirits and ghosts and the resentment of other people, leaving one to wait for disaster to strike. It cannot be sustained for long.

Even when a house is filled with gold and jade, no one can hold on to them forever.

Explanation: If greed has no limit, then even a house full of gold and jade may bring ruin—as when an elephant is killed for its valuable tusks, or a rooster is chosen as a sacrificial offering and has its tail feathers cut off. In this way, one loses the precious virtue of being free from greed and invites political calamity. Greed brings harm instead; how could anyone hold on to wealth? This further explains the principle of “holding fullness”—remaining full without becoming arrogant or indulgent.

To grow arrogant and conceited after becoming wealthy and powerful is to bring calamity upon oneself.

Explanation: “Bestow” means “give.” People often come to the wealthy seeking something, making it easy for them to oppress others. People often defer to those in high positions, making it easy for them to place themselves above others. Arrogance and extravagance often take shape without one noticing; when calamity arrives, who can bear it in one’s place? Since arrogance brings calamity, and arrogance arises within oneself, one is said to bring calamity upon oneself. This further explains the principle of “sharpening the edge”—showing off one’s prowess and striving to prevail.

After one’s achievements are complete and one’s reputation has flourished, one should withdraw and retire. This is the law of Heaven.

Explanation: This serves as a warning. Fullness invites loss, while humility brings gain. Even Heaven does not remain forever in a state of fullness. Thus, when achievements reach their peak, they decline; after a reputation has flourished, it too diminishes. To seek lasting preservation without understanding this principle is futile. One should forget achievement and reputation, and withdraw and yield when one is prospering. By following the changes of fullness and emptiness as Heaven does, one avoids bringing upon oneself distress and blame.

Chapter Ten: Carrying the Soul

The previous chapter explained that indulging desire and emotion, and becoming arrogant and self-satisfied, invite calamity. This chapter explains that by nurturing the spirit, cherishing Jing and Qi, and keeping the mind and spirit from scattering, one can avoid error. From “carrying the soul” through “cleansing and purifying,” it advises people how to cultivate themselves and preserve De. From “loving the people” through “clarity,” it explains how those with complete De can govern the world. It concludes with “giving life and nurturing,” showing that the Dao’s mysterious power can nourish all things.

In carrying and settling body and mind, and bringing the ethereal and corporeal souls together in an embrace of the One—the Dao, or a state of pure unity—is it possible to keep them from separating?

“Bearer” means what has just come into being, and “nourish” means to protect and sustain. When a person is first born, there is initially only an empty, insubstantial body. Once the body has formed, Yang Qi fills it. When the body can move, this is called the hun. It is like the moon’s Yin soul reflecting the sun, thereby revealing its light. Thus Zichan says in the Spring and Autumn Annals, “When a person is first born, it is called the po.” Once the po is born, Yang Qi becomes the hun.

The meaning is this: when a person is first born, the body is still very weak. One should nourish Yang Qi and keep it abundant, so that the hun can take shape and life can be preserved. If activity is unrestrained and Yang Qi is depleted, the body becomes empty again, and death eventually follows. The Zhuangzi says, “When the heart is close to death, do not let it recover its Yang Qi.” So one should nourish the body and keep Yang Qi abundant, restoring life to wholeness. Hold fast to unity, keep the mind and spirit free of distracting thoughts, and do not let them leave the body: then life can be preserved. This passage concerns nourishing Shen (spirit).

By concentrating on and holding fast to Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), and bringing the body to a state of gentleness, can one become like an infant?

“Concentrate” means to focus single-mindedly, and “Qi” here refers to calm, subtle energy. Human life is rooted in balanced, harmonious Qi. When we become tainted by worldly influences, this Qi disperses, and the spirit can no longer remain settled in the body. Therefore, one should concentrate on and hold fast to balanced, harmonious Qi, making body and mind gentle, like an infant without attachments. This passage concerns nourishing Qi.

Can you cleanse and bring order to the deep inner vision, so that it is entirely without flaw?

“Cleanse” means to wash away; “bring order” means to set right; “dark vision” refers to inward awareness; and “flaw” means a fault. When people become absorbed in external things, desires arise. One should cleanse and set the mind in order, making it clear and pure so that craving and desire no longer arise, and no faults remain. This passage concerns purifying the mind.

In caring for the people and governing the state, can one practice Wuwei (non-action)?

Care for the people by ensuring that they are not subjected to harsh or urgent demands. When conscripting them for labor, do not damage their nature. In governing the state, devote yourself to agriculture and give priority to food, keeping administration simple and free of needless disturbance. Then the people can live in peace and pursue their livelihoods, and instruction will take effect naturally, without much being said. This is Wuwei (non-action). Can you do this?

In governing the opening and closing of Heaven’s Gate, can you remain receptive and yielding?

Commentary: By cultivating De, one may become a ruler. To become a ruler, one must receive the imperial mandate and the dynastic succession bestowed by Heaven. Here, “Heaven’s Gate” refers to the source of the imperial mandate. When Heaven’s Gate “opens,” a ruler receives the mandate and ascends the throne; when it “closes,” the ruler loses the throne and is deposed. Heaven bestows its precious mandate so that a person of the Dao may receive it. If a ruler can remain receptive and yielding, he can enjoy great good fortune. Hence the question: “Can you remain receptive and yielding?” Another interpretation draws on the Book of Changes, which says, “One closing and one opening are called change.” This means that change consists in opening and closing. The sage establishes teachings in response to changing times, without fixed methods. He does not strive to overpower others, but remains yielding and humble. This is like Heaven’s Gate opening and closing, and like fullness diminishing while humility brings increase.

Can you perceive clearly and understand all directions without assuming that you know?

Commentary: Once an emperor has received Heaven’s mandate and rules the realm, if he can remain yielding and still, his De will shine brightly in all directions, like the sun. His achievements benefit all things, yet he does not claim them as his own. He lets go of his accomplishments, as though unaware of them; hence the question: “Can you perceive clearly and understand all directions without assuming that you know?”

Give life to all things and nurture them.

Commentary: Later the text says, “The Dao gives them life; De nurtures them.” Here, “give them life and nurture them” means that the ruler models himself on the Dao’s stillness, allowing all things to grow freely, and on De’s generous care, enabling each thing to be fully nurtured. Hence the words, “Give life to all things and nurture them.”

Give life to all things and nurture them.

Commentary: Later the text says, “The Dao gives them life; De nurtures them.” Here, “give them life and nurture them” means that the ruler models himself on the Dao’s stillness, allowing all things to grow freely, and on De’s generous care, enabling each thing to be fully nurtured. Hence the words, “Give life to all things and nurture them.”

Give life to all things without claiming them as your own; act without relying on your achievements; help all things grow without ruling over them. This is called Mysterious De (profound and subtle Virtue).

All things grow and flourish in accordance with their own nature, yet the sage does not claim credit for it. As they grow and flourish, the principles of life naturally reach completion. The sage forgets his credit, and so his influence can be preserved for a long time. This is to harbor no self-interest, yet bring about the growth of all things in their own way; to avoid personally directing them, yet become their true ruler.

“Giving life without possessing” means allowing all things to grow and flourish in their own way, while the ruler does not treat them as his property. “Acting without relying on one’s achievements” means allowing all things to fulfill their functions, while not using these accomplishments as grounds for self-praise. “Leading without controlling” means that one is called a leader because one stands above the people; one is called “not controlling” because one does not rely on one’s achievements or claim the role of master. This is the profound and wondrous De.

End of Book One of the Commentary on the Dao De Jing, Imperial Composition of Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang.

Chapter Eleven: The Thirtieth Spoke

The previous chapter discussed cultivating the spirit and cherishing vital energy, so that the mind remains undivided and free from error. This chapter explains how things, though they have physical form, function through the empty spaces within them, which work together. Thus, Heaven and Earth contain the source embodied in the Great Change (the fundamental state from which all things arise and transform), while the axle and carriage body illustrate the principle that function is achieved through “nonbeing.” Using a carriage as its example, the chapter explains the usefulness of objects and ultimately returns to the idea of “making use.”

Thirty spokes converge at a single hub—the part at the center of the wheel that joins the spokes. It is precisely because the hub is hollow that the carriage can be put to use.

A wheel has thirty spokes joined to the hub at its center. This shows that the many spokes depend on the hub as their center. The hub is hollow in the middle, allowing the wheel to turn; this shows that the “nothing” in things enables the “something” to serve its purpose.

What is the Dao? It is the fundamental source that is utterly empty and one. It sets all things in motion and gathers together all kinds of matter, allowing things of countless varieties to take their distinct forms, while the source from which they arise returns to the One. Many openings each produce their own sounds, yet they are set ringing by the same breath of Qi. Thus the movement and generation of all things under Heaven never depart from the Dao, which is utterly one.

Consider a cart: its shafts and body are solid, while the inside of the body is empty. It is precisely because the body is hollow that the cart can carry things and move. Without solid parts such as the shafts and body, the empty space could serve no purpose. Conversely, if the body were not hollow, its parts, including the shafts and body, would be useless.

Heaven and Earth each establish their own order, and through this the function of the Yi becomes apparent; all things transform and flow, and through this the function of the Dao is made clear. Here, then, the roles of “something” and “nothing” in concrete things are used to explain how the utterly empty Dao enables solid things to serve their purpose.

“Clay is kneaded and shaped into a vessel, with an empty space left inside; only then is the vessel useful.”

The commentary explains: “‘Kneaded’ means worked together; ‘clay’ means sticky earth.” The commentator says this passage describes a potter making vessels. The Book of Documents says, “Molding earth is called pottery,” meaning that earth is made into objects. The potter kneads and shapes the clay, then fires it to make a vessel. The vessel can hold things precisely because an empty space is left inside.

“Doors and windows are cut out to build a house, with empty space left within; only then is the house useful.”

“Cutting” means boring through; the window beside a door is called a you (window). In ancient times, people lived in caves, which is why the Book of Songs says, “They made caves in the earth and covered them over.” This means digging out a hollow in the ground, then covering it with earth. Later, the sages built palaces and houses for people to live in, leaving empty space inside so that people could dwell there. The Zhuangzi says that when a house has no open space, a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law may quarrel as they struggle to pass one another. The Erya says that “palace” means “room.”

Thus, tangible things provide convenience, but it is the intangible, empty space that actually makes them useful.

The convenience provided by “being” lies in its availability for use. But for it to serve a purpose, it must rely on “nonbeing” (empty space), so “being” takes “nonbeing” as its convenience. The function of “nonbeing” operates through concrete things; yet for concrete things to exist, they must rely on “being,” so “nonbeing,” too, takes “being” as its convenience. The commentary cites the Book of Changes, “The above-form is called the Dao; the below-form is called a vessel.” From the intangible aspect, it is called the Dao; when it concerns the tangible aspect, it is called a vessel (a concrete thing). To explain how the Dao works, one must use tangible things as examples. Thus, the chapter begins with three metaphors and concludes by showing that, at the root, it is “nonbeing” that is put to use.

Chapter Twelve: The Five Colors

The previous chapter explained that “being” and “nonbeing” depend on each other in order to serve a purpose. This chapter explains that becoming absorbed in worldly life and chasing external things can throw the mind and spirit into turmoil. It begins by listing colors and sounds, warning that excessive stimulation causes harm; it then discusses hunting to show that pursuing desires damages inner calm. It concludes with the sage’s choices, pointing to the essentials of preserving one’s true nature and nurturing one’s innate character.

The five colors—blue-green, yellow, red, white, and black—blind the eyes; the five notes—gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu—deafen the ears; and the five flavors—sour, salty, sweet, bitter, and pungent—dull the palate.

Here, “colors” refers to the five colors of blue-green, yellow, red, white, and black; “notes” refers to the five musical tones of gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu; and “flavors” refers to the five tastes of sour, salty, sweet, bitter, and pungent. “Dull” means to become impaired or distorted. When the eyes see colors, the ears hear sounds, and the mouth distinguishes flavors, excessive stimulation inevitably causes harm. It can make the body as though it were blind or deaf, or unable to distinguish tastes. More broadly, if people become absorbed in worldly sights, sounds, and other things, without understanding that sights and sounds are empty in their nature, the damage affects not only the bodily senses but also their wisdom.

Those who chase sensual pleasures, indulging their desires and rushing about in every direction, are like people who go hunting, seeking only to kill their quarry. As their desires grow stronger, their minds and spirits race after the things around them. Quietly observed, this state is like a mind gone mad.

“Rare and precious goods” are valuable things that people strive to obtain. If something lies beyond one’s proper place yet one still pursues it by force, this is to go against one’s nature and grasp at what is not rightfully one’s own. It therefore obstructs the cultivation of the Dao.

The sage, then, seeks what is in the “belly,” not what is in the “eye.” The “belly” refers to inward receptivity, without making distinctions; the “eye” refers to recklessly chasing external things and craving sensory pleasures. Making fewer distinctions preserves one’s nature and inner character, while becoming infatuated with external things harms one’s nature.

Thus, one should set aside the “eye” that vainly chases sights and instead take up the “belly,” which receives without making reckless distinctions.

Chapter Thirteen: Favor and Disgrace

The previous chapter explained that becoming absorbed in external circumstances and rushing after pleasures can throw the mind and spirit into disorder. This chapter explains that taking favor and disgrace too seriously, and placing excessive importance on oneself, bring worry and trouble. The opening lines state the central idea and introduce what follows; a question and answer then clarify the principle; the chapter concludes by urging us to cherish ourselves without becoming self-important.

Favor and disgrace are like alarm

“Like” means “resembling”: the alarm caused by favor and the alarm caused by disgrace are alike. One receives favor because someone grants it; when favor is lost, one feels disgraced. If people cannot regard honor and disgrace with equanimity, they will chase fame and status. When they hold power and influence, they treat these as glory and boast of them; when they lose their position, they feel lowly and disgraced, and become anxious and distressed. The passage therefore cautions people to remain alert to both favor and disgrace, and through this to learn to regard them equally.

Regard yourself as something precious, as you would regard a calamity.

“Precious” means to value something highly, and “as” means “like.” The body is the source of calamity. Becoming absorbed in sights and sounds, and striving after wealth and glory, both stem from attachment to oneself and thus become the starting point of calamity. If you value yourself, how is that different from valuing a great calamity? The self is already bound up with calamity. The reason one cannot escape calamity lies in clinging to the existence of this body. If you can stop clinging to yourself, you will no longer regard calamity as precious. We can see from this that calamity arises from valuing oneself, and that the body is bound up with calamity. Hence the saying, “Regard calamity as you would regard yourself.”

What does it mean to receive favor or suffer disgrace? Receiving favor itself places one in a subordinate position.

The preceding passage says, “Favor and disgrace alike bring alarm.” To ensure this is understood, it poses a question and explains. Receiving favor places one in a subordinate position because relying on favor easily leads to arrogance and complacency, which in turn invite calamity. When favor brings calamity, it becomes clear that affection is the very root of disgrace.

To feel alarm when receiving favor and to feel alarm when losing it—this is what it means for both favor and disgrace to bring alarm.

Receiving affection is “favor”; losing it is “disgrace.” Favor and disgrace can turn into one another, and favor itself may become the root of disgrace. When ordinary people receive favor, they rejoice; when they suffer disgrace, they are alarmed. The sage reminds people that fortune and calamity transform into one another and arrive intertwined, and that favor and disgrace are not fixed. One should not feel alarm only when disgraced. When disgrace comes, people worry about calamity; when favor comes, they should also guard against becoming arrogant. Both situations call for caution. Hence favor and disgrace alike bring alarm.

What does it mean to “regard calamity as you would regard yourself”?

Here, to make the meaning of the saying clear, a question is posed and then answered.

I have great troubles because I am attached to my body.

“I have great troubles because I am attached to my bodily form. I place great importance on honor and loathe disgrace, and am always distinguishing right from wrong. When things do not go as I wish, I become anxious and afraid. Greed wears down the heart, while rushing about in competition exhausts the body. How could such weariness and suffering not be troubles?”

When I no longer cling to my body, what troubles could remain?

To “not cling to the body” means to see that bodily form is illusory and insubstantial. Through “sitting in forgetfulness”—sitting quietly and forgetting one’s form and preconceived views—one lets go of attending to external things, casts aside bodily sensations and the sharpness of the ears and eyes, and becomes connected with the Great Dao. One no longer takes oneself to be the master, but understands that, like all the myriad things brought forth by Heaven and Earth, the body does not truly belong to oneself. Then distinctions between honor and disgrace disappear, and feelings of love and aversion subside. Zhuangzi calls this “undoing the hanging bonds”: releasing the spirit from its restraints. Why, then, worry about great troubles? Hence the saying: “When I no longer cling to my body, what troubles could remain?”

“Wei-He” refers to the body as a temporary gathering of the Qi of Heaven and Earth, shaped by Yin and Yang, and not something one personally owns. Zhuangzi records that Cheng answered Shun, saying: “The body does not belong to you; it is entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth and formed through their transformations.”

Therefore, one who values the realm more highly than their own body can be entrusted with the realm; one who cares for the realm as they care for their own body can also be entrusted with it.

This passage says that if a ruler regards himself as exalted and takes himself to be the master of the realm, he is likely to look down on others, and so people will not sincerely support him. The realm can only be entrusted to him for a time. But if a ruler cares for the realm as he cares for himself, he will treat the people with benevolence, and they will gladly support him. The realm can therefore be entrusted to him for long-term governance.

The chapter begins by discussing fear arising from favor and disgrace, and ends with entrusting the realm. Its point is that rather than be alarmed by favor and disgrace, one should forget them; rather than cling to exalted status and cherished possessions, one should let go of these attachments; rather than leave a reputation for having been entrusted with the realm, one should not keep the realm in mind at all. Clinging to favor and disgrace makes it impossible to forget the distinction between self and things, leaving the mind tangled in worries. Relying on one’s exalted status leads to competing with others. Forget favor and disgrace, and there is no longer alarm; forget the self, and the source of distress is removed; forget the realm, and no trace of attachment to its entrusted governance remains. Then, with a supreme ruler above who practices Wuwei (non-action), and ministers below who follow the Great Dao, all things can be accomplished through non-action, and De (Virtue/Power) arises naturally without being claimed.

What the eyes look at but cannot see is called “Yi” (indistinct); what the ears listen for but cannot hear is called “Xi” (inaudible); what the hands reach out to touch but cannot grasp is called “Wei” (imperceptible).

The commentary explains: This passage speaks of the Dao. Looking with the eyes means trying to find the Dao among forms and colors; listening with the ears means trying to find it in sounds; reaching out with the hands means trying to find it in physical forms. But the Dao does not belong to forms and colors, sounds, or physical forms, so no matter how one searches, it cannot be found. Yet it would also be wrong to conclude that it is “nothing.” Though the Dao has no forms or colors, it can accord with every form and color; though it makes no sound, it can harmonize with every sound; though it has no physical form, it can appear in every form. This is how color appears within the colorless, sound answers within the soundless, and form emerges within the formless. The scripture uses “Xi, Wei, and Yi” to name this elusive Dao. Here, “Yi” means level and even, without bias; “Xi” refers to a sound too subtle to hear. “Chuan” means to hold or grasp. “To illuminate the Dao is not the Dao” means that these names describe the Dao’s workings but cannot be equated with the Dao itself.

These three cannot be pursued to their source, and so they blend into one.

The commentary explains: “These three” refers to Yi, Xi, and Wei. “Zhi” means to reach; “jie” means to question and investigate; “hun” means to combine as one. The Dao’s essential nature is subtle and unified, and cannot readily be named in terms of forms and colors, sounds, or physical forms. Naturally, it cannot be investigated through them. If one tries to pursue it through forms and colors, sounds, or physical forms, one can reach only the terms “Xi, Wei, and Yi.” These names were devised only to describe the Dao’s workings. Since the Dao belongs to none of these categories, ultimately it blends into oneness.

Above it, there is no particular brightness; below it, no particular darkness.

“Jiao” means bright, and “mei” means dark. Everything that has form and substance occupies a definite place and has a definite shape: what is above appears bright, while what is below appears dark. Only the subtle source—the root of the Dao—is elusive and hard to grasp, beyond definition by any fixed name. Above, it is not especially bright; below, it is not especially dark. It can be above or below, manifest or hidden. What could be like this, if not the most profound and subtle presence in the world?

It extends without end and cannot be named; in the end, it returns to nothing.

“Shengsheng” describes continuous, unceasing change. The subtle source gives rise to the myriad things, changing without limit, yet its power to create them cannot be accurately expressed in words. It gives rise to the myriad things without appearing as any particular thing. The things continually come into being, while it is not itself something that has come into being. At the deepest level, the subtle source is still and clear, and has never had a concrete form. That is why it is said to return, in the end, to “nothing.”

This is called the form of the formless and the image of the imageless. This is called “elusive and indistinct.”

“Zhuang” means form, and “xiang” means image. The subtle source is an undivided whole. It has no form of its own, yet it is what the transformations of the myriad things depend on, and the root from which each takes its particular shape. Thus it can be called the form of the formless and the image of the imageless. It cannot be described as some concrete thing, nor can it be declared to be sheer nothingness. Since being and nonbeing alike defy clear expression, it is called “elusive and indistinct.”

Facing it, one cannot see its beginning; following it, one cannot see its end.

The Dao is supremely subtle and formless, vast beyond all bounds. So, facing it, one cannot see its beginning; following it, one cannot see its end. Without a beginning, there is no origin to speak of; without an end, there is no conclusion to speak of. It has neither beginning nor end and cannot be grasped by facing it or following it.

Hold fast to the Dao of ancient times and use it to guide the myriad things that exist in the present.

This passage explains that ancient emperors often used the Dao of Wuwei (non-action) to guide the people. It therefore counsels today’s rulers to uphold the teaching of Wuwei practiced by the ancients and use it to address the affairs of government that now require action. In this way, people can be naturally transformed without relying on words.

“To know the ancient beginning is to grasp the guiding principles of the Dao.” To understand the source of things is to grasp the fundamental principles of the Dao. The previous passage spoke of holding to the ancient Dao in order to guide people to live in accordance with it. This passage goes further, explaining that understanding the source of the Dao enables its practice to transform people. If an emperor understands the ancient beginning, governs through Wuwei, preserves simplicity, and maintains stillness, he understands the principle of Wuwei and has grasped the guiding principles of the Dao.

Chapter Fifteen: Those of Old Who Were Skilled in the Dao

The previous chapter explained that the subtle source of the Dao has no shape or form, and so its workings reach everywhere. This chapter explains that those who are profoundly attuned to the Dao can remain free of complacency, yet are difficult for others to fathom. The first five lines describe the subtle profundity of those skilled in practicing the Dao. The next seven lines portray the qualities and bearing that make them hard to understand. The two lines beginning “Who can…” say that cultivation must proceed step by step. The chapter concludes by emphasizing the need to hold to this Dao, showing that even after cultivation is complete, one does not become fixed in any one place.

Those of old who were skilled in practicing the Dao were subtle and profound, open and far-reaching; they were so deep that others could not fathom them.

Here, “old” means the past, while “adept” refers to a person who practices the Dao. Those of old who were skilled in acting in accordance with the Dao were subtle and profound, quiet and far-reaching, yet open and perceptive. They experienced the Great Dao and understood its principles; their minds were open and unobstructed. Their bearing was deep and inscrutable, so others could not understand them.

Because they were so difficult to fathom, one can only offer a rough description of what they were like:

Although those skilled in practicing the Dao had dignified bearing that could offer others insight, their minds were calm and at ease, and the luminous quality of their De (Virtue/Power) arose naturally. Their inner virtue and breadth of spirit were beyond scrutiny. One can therefore only roughly describe their outward manner, using signs of their accord with nature to guide and transform ordinary people.

Cautious! Like someone crossing a river in winter.

The commentary here only notes that this line “offers a rough description of what they were like”; it has not yet explained the line itself.

Those who are skilled in cultivating the Dao can use their dignified bearing to influence others, yet their hearts are calm and spacious, and their inner light shines forth naturally. Their De and bearing are difficult to fathom. Any attempt to describe their outward appearance is therefore only meant to show how they follow the natural course of things, and to guide and teach ordinary people.

“Cautious, as if crossing a river in winter”: “Cautious” describes an easeful, unhurried manner. The river is a metaphor here for worldly desires, which can cause beings to become immersed and lost. Though virtuous people live in the world, they are not stained by desire, and so remain easy and unhurried, like someone crossing a river in winter. In winter the ice is firm; there is no need to fear falling into the water, and one can walk with a steady heart.

“Watchful, as if wary of neighbors on every side”: “Watchful” describes doubt and caution. Virtuous people are not burdened by desire, so their hearts are at ease. Yet when observing their own words and actions, they worry about whether they accord with the Dao, and so they are always careful and self-reflective. They are like ordinary people who act with particular caution for fear that their neighbors might see them.

“Dignified, like a guest; open, like ice about to melt”: When virtuous people encounter desire, they do not act on impulse. They are like guests in the presence of a host: composed and respectful. At the same time, their good deeds do not become fixed in external things. They unfold freely and without obstruction, like ice about to melt in spring.

“Genuine, like uncarved wood”: “Genuine” means honest and generous; “uncarved” means plain and simple. Though virtuous people do not cling to external things or contend for empty fame, their De is sincere and generous. They are like uncarved wood, making no deliberate distinctions or embellishments.

“Vast, like a valley”: “Vast” means broad and spacious. With the Dao and De in their hearts, virtuous people have a generous spirit and can embrace all things, like an empty valley that has room for everything.

“Blended, like muddy water”: The hearts of virtuous people are clear and still, yet they can also accommodate all things and live in harmony with the world. They do not deliberately make themselves seem different. Blended and reserved, they appear as though murky, and others find them difficult to fathom.

“Who can still the muddy and let it slowly clear?”

The text above speaks of “when turbidity settles,” using muddy water clearing as a metaphor for the good person’s unstained mind naturally returning to tranquility. Who, amid the tangled desires of the world that disturb the mind, can draw on the Dao nature of stillness to quiet themselves, so that desires no longer arise? This is like letting muddy water gradually settle and slowly become clear. “Who” means just that: who can do it?

Who can calmly maintain this stillness without becoming fixed in it, and then let the Dao nature gradually stir and unfold?

The commentary says that this passage teaches people not to become stuck in any one method of cultivation. Who can use the stillness of their nature to quiet desires, as water returns to clarity? Once stillness has gradually been attained, remaining settled in it for a long time creates attachment. Attachment is not awakening, nor is it genuine freedom. One must therefore seek a higher method of cultivation and continue to transform and deepen one’s practice. Cultivation requires continual reduction, layer by layer. Following this sequence, deluded thoughts gradually arise and subside; then the still nature does not become fixed in any particular method but can unfold and manifest step by step. “Unfold” means to stir into activity and become manifest.

One who holds to this Dao does not seek fulfillment or self-satisfaction.

The commentary says that attachment to a particular method and settling into stillness are forms of self-satisfaction. To preserve this Dao of gradually becoming still and gradually unfolding, one must remain unstained and unattached, attaining something without thinking that one has gained anything. If one then clings to stillness or pursues a particular state of unfolding, one falls into self-satisfaction and obstructs cultivation. Hence the phrase “does not seek fullness.”

Precisely because one is not self-satisfied, one can regard what has already been attained as insufficient, continually renew one’s practice, and avoid assuming that one has already achieved something.

The commentary says that those who can avoid stagnation and attachment, reach the state of Wuwei (non-action), and neither cling to any teaching nor become self-satisfied, continually regard each newly attained teaching as still insufficient. They go on seeking a higher method of cultivation and do not cling to it as their final, new achievement.

Chapter Sixteen: Reaching the Utmost Void

The previous chapter says that those who are profoundly attuned to the Dao constantly hold to it without becoming self-satisfied. This chapter says that those who maintain stillness can surely return to the root and recover their life. “Recovering life” is the key to understanding the constant Dao; “maintaining stillness” is the path to attaining emptiness and quietude. The two chapters follow one another in meaning, showing that their principles ultimately return to the workings of the Dao: only by understanding the constant Dao can one truly be attuned to it, and only by acting in accordance with the Dao can one endure.

Bring the mind to the utmost void and steadfastly maintain stillness.

The utmost void is the subtle and wondrous source. At birth, everyone receives this utmost void and wondrous source; this is one’s true nature. After taking shape, one must continue to follow the Dao (the Way) for life to endure.

Bring the mind to the utmost point of emptiness and stillness, and steadfastly preserve clarity and calm.

The utmost void is the subtle and wondrous source. At birth, everyone receives this utmost void and wondrous source; this is one’s true nature. Once the body has formed, the six faculties—the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind, or the six capacities for perception and awareness—become tainted by love and desire and are drawn along by all manner of cravings. True nature then disperses and loses its subtle and wondrous source. To bring that source back within oneself, one should preserve gentleness and stillness, cultivate a sincere and settled nature, cut off desires, and practice Wuwei (non-action), without narrowness or aversion. Then the utmost void and wondrous source will return naturally. This is like water naturally flowing toward low, damp places and fire naturally tending toward what is dry. “Bring about” means to ensure that something arrives, as in the phrase “bring about a battle” in the Spring and Autumn Annals.

All things grow and move together; from this, I observe how they return.

This explains that steadfastly preserving stillness enables one to reach the utmost void. All things take different forms and move in different ways, but when we observe their final destination, we often find that they return to their source. The Book of Changes says, “Thunder within the earth: Return.” Here, “return” means going back to the source. Stillness therefore enables all things to return to their source, while agitation causes them to lose it.

The myriad things flourish in profusion, yet each in the end returns to its root.

The myriad things serve here as a metaphor for the principle of observing their return to the source. The “root” is the original basis from which all things receive the breath of life and grow. Look at the myriad things: their flowers and leaves may flourish, but their lives all originate in the root.

Here the myriad things again serve as a metaphor for the principle of observing return to the source. The “root” is the original basis from which all things receive the breath of life and grow. Though the flowers and leaves of the myriad things flourish, their lives ultimately return to the root, from which they grow anew. The subtle and wondrous source that people receive is the same: though emotions and desires may become tangled and flourish, if one can preserve stillness and attain emptiness, one’s pure and upright nature will return to the original basis of life, allowing life to endure. The original text includes the phrase “clouds and clouds,” which the commentary explains.

Returning to the root is stillness; stillness is a return to the original basis of life.

When the myriad things return to the root, they become settled and still. When people preserve stillness, they can attain emptiness and calm. Trees receive the breath of life and grow; their root is their foundation. To return to the root is to return to the original basis of life. People are born having received the subtle and wondrous source of the utmost void. If they can preserve stillness and attain emptiness, they too can be said to return to the nature and original basis of life they received at birth.

Returning to the root is called “constancy”—the enduring, unchanging principle. Understanding the constant Dao is called “clarity.” Those who do not understand the constant Dao and act recklessly will bring danger upon themselves.

If one can maintain a gentle, still, and steadfast state of mind, reach the utmost emptiness and stillness, and perceive the wondrous root, one can return to the root—that is, return to the constant Dao. To understand and uphold the constant Dao is to be clear-sighted. To stray from it and act recklessly is to lose constancy. When De does not endure, one will ultimately fall into danger. The Jing of Changes, in its “Hexagram Heng” commentary, says, “If one cannot maintain De, one may suffer humiliation.” This expresses the same principle.

Understanding the constant Dao enables one to embrace all things.

A clear-sighted person can see things as they are. Whatever comes before them, they respond appropriately and make room for it. That is why it says, “Knowing constancy, one embraces all.”

Embracing all things makes it possible to be fair and impartial. When one is fair and impartial, people throughout the world will turn to one. This is what it means to be a “king.”

A king to whom the world turns can take Heaven as a model. Heaven is vast and impartial; following its example, the king’s beneficence covers all things like Heaven itself. That is why it says, “The king models himself on Heaven.”

When the king’s De accords with the way of Heaven, he can govern the world through Wuwei, allowing the Dao’s teaching to take effect. That is why it says, “Heaven models itself on the Dao.”

When the Dao’s teaching takes effect, it can endure. By maintaining stillness and humility, and returning to the root and to the constant Dao, the king can attain this state of De. When his De accords with the way of Heaven and he can put the Dao into practice, he can enjoy blessings for a long time. People throughout the world draw near to him as they turn toward the sun, revere him as they look up to the sky, receive his beneficence as they bask in a gentle rain, and await him as they await spring. In this way, he will face no danger throughout his life. That is why it says, “Until the end of life, there is no danger.”

“The Chapter on the Great High One and Those Below Who Know,” seventeenth, Qu.

The simple and honest ways of high antiquity gradually declined, and social customs later became increasingly corrupt. This chapter explains how people lost the Great Dao step by step, and where the various ills came from. The previous chapter said that guarding stillness can lead to emptiness and quiet; this chapter says that Wuwei (non-action) can bring people back to simplicity. Once simplicity is lost, closeness and praise arise in its place. If people can practice Wuwei, they will regard everything as simply happening of itself. A ruler who hopes to bring about the transformation of the Dao should devote himself to this way of teaching without words.

The highest kind of ruler is one whom the people only know exists.

“Supreme” refers to the rulers of the simple, ancient age; it is an honorific title for them. Such rulers follow Wuwei and do not use words to teach. Their subjects know only that a ruler is above them, and honor him as they honor Heaven. He occupies the highest place and nurtures all things as the seasons turn, yet people cannot say precisely what his De (Virtue/Power) is. That is why it says, “The people only know that he exists.”

The next best ruler is one whom the people cherish and praise.

After the highest kind of ruler had passed away, the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun appeared in succession. They taught the people and promoted good government, extending benevolence to them; therefore, the people cherished them. They were gentle and humble, bringing peace to the realm, and their achievements were widely recognized; therefore, the people praised them. But when people cherish and praise a ruler, they leave behind deeds for later generations to imitate. If those who come after them deliberately pursue such outward achievements, trouble may follow. That is why the Zhuangzi says, “I tell you: the source of great disorder must surely have arisen between the time of Yao and Shun.” Why does it say this? Because their deeds were handed down for a thousand years, and later generations might become bound to those examples.

The next ruler after that is one whom the people fear and despise.

After the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun had passed away, the age gradually declined. By the time of the Three Kings of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties and the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period, rulers had increasingly resorted to harsh punishments and severe laws, so the people feared them. When rulers lack the insight to see clearly and understand what is truly happening, the people despise them. Subordinates pursue private gain when discussing punishments, while those in power reward wicked people and thereby encourage deceit. When those above and below conceal the truth from one another, the situation is truly chilling.

When trust is insufficient, the people will not trust their ruler.

This sentence again explains that the people despise a ruler because he lacks the insight to see clearly. Subordinates pursue personal advantage when discussing guilt, while those in power reward wicked people and thereby encourage deceit. When those above and below conceal the truth from one another, the situation is truly chilling.

“When the common people fear the ruler’s punishments and treat his commands lightly,” this is because the ruler has lost their trust. As a result, some people no longer believe in him.

“The ruler cherishes his own words.” This further explains why the people draw close to the ruler and praise him. They cherish his good deeds and praise his achievements because his words of moral instruction are worthy of esteem. That is why they praise him. Here, the word you is used in the same sense as you (“because of”).

“Once the work is done and the achievements completed, the people all regard it as something that happened naturally.” This further explains the saying, “Of the best rulers, the people only know that they exist.” In an age of simplicity and naturalness, the people’s nature has not been harmed. What need would there be to make wine vessels? When the Great Dao and De are put into practice naturally, what need is there to draw close to or praise the ruler? Thus, when the best ruler governs the world, the people forget the ruler’s achievements. Once the work is done, they simply feel that everything happened as it should, unaware that they ought to draw close to and praise the ruler in return for his kindness.

Chapter Eighteen: When the Great Dao Is Abandoned

The previous chapter discusses how the presence or absence of the Dao relates to the character of an age: when the Dao remains, the people’s customs are simple and sincere, and this simplicity is not lost. This chapter explains that when customs deteriorate and the Dao is lost, ideas such as benevolence and righteousness arise in its wake. The commentaries compare this to putting on a wig after going bald, or seeking a doctor after falling ill. Though things may seem better after these remedies, the original state has already been lost. It is also like counting grains of rice to prepare a meal or combing the hair one strand at a time: such efforts are petty and laborious, and they damage one’s nature. The classic directly lists eight conditions to show that the world’s decline has reached its extreme, and to urge people to return to the simplicity of ancient times.

“Only when the Great Dao is abandoned do benevolence and righteousness arise.” The abandonment of the Great Dao means that the customs of the age have become shallow and corrupt, people are restless and competitive, and the atmosphere of calmness and harmony has disappeared, along with clear and balanced moral instruction. People have lost the way of following the Great Dao and governing through Wuwei (non-action). Thus, it becomes necessary to promote “benevolence,” which means caring for others, and “righteousness,” which means judging right and wrong. These ideas then proliferate. Zhuangzi says, “The Dao is obscured by partial achievements.” Here, “partial achievements” refers to the separate doctrines of benevolence, righteousness, and the like, each advancing its own principles. Because they cannot be integrated into a whole, they are called “partial achievements.”

“When wisdom comes to prominence, great hypocrisy appears.”

The sages’ commentary says that the “emergence of wisdom” refers to later generations using clever schemes to establish laws that restrain customs and compile codes to punish wrongdoing. Fearing that people would not honor their agreements, they made tally tokens and seals as proof of trust. Fearing that weights and measures would be unfair, they made measuring vessels such as the dou and hu to measure goods.

“When wisdom emerges, great hypocrisy follows.” The commentary explains that the unkind would also steal tally tokens and seals, or even tamper with measuring vessels. Laws and instruments were originally made to uphold truth and trust, yet they instead gave deception and hypocrisy new means. That is why the text speaks of “great hypocrisy.”

“When kinship is discordant, filial devotion and parental care emerge.” The commentary says that the six relations are father and son, elder and younger brothers, and husband and wife. In ancient times, customs were simple and the whole world was like one family. People cared not only for their own kin but also treated others as they treated themselves. A father’s care and a child’s filial devotion arose naturally, so there was no need to make special claims about “filial devotion” and “parental care.” Later, as those above and below fell out of harmony, resentment and favoritism took root. Only then did acts such as fanning a pillow to cool it or warming a bed for an elder come to be praised as filial devotion, and acts such as worrying about one’s children at home while away come to be praised as parental care. People who earned a reputation for filial devotion or parental care might then boast of it. If everyone treated others as they treated themselves—caring not only for their own parents and cherishing not only their own children—then everyone in the world could be called filial and caring, and there would be no need to single out these qualities for praise.

Only when the state is in disorder do loyal ministers appear.

Loyalty is originally a minister’s duty. Why, then, do we go out of our way to praise “loyal ministers”? It is because rulers have failed to fulfill their responsibility to govern their ministers, allowing treacherous and sycophantic people to gain office, approach the ruler, and obscure the affairs of state, thereby bringing about calamity and disorder. Some people then risk death to face danger and put their lives on the line to uphold the state, earning the name “loyal ministers.”

If the Dao’s teachings were widely practiced, government would be clear and ordered through Wuwei (non-action), society would be stable, and an enlightened ruler would be surrounded by capable ministers, all as worthy as Kui and Long, legendary ministers of ancient times. Human relationships and social principles would each be in their proper order, and everyone would be able to manage affairs well. No one would then need to risk death to uphold the state, and there would no longer be a name such as “loyal minister.” When the titles “loyal minister” and “filial child” cease to be celebrated, and the Way of simplicity flourishes, why would anyone need to single out loyal ministers and filial children? Loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness stand out as ideals only when social customs have declined to their lowest point. How could such a state of affairs fail to call for a return to simplicity?

End of volume two of The Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue, Imperial Composition of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang

Volume Three of The Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue, Imperial Composition of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang

Chapter Nineteen: Abandon Sageliness

The previous chapter discussed how social customs decline and people lose the Dao, giving rise to teachings about benevolence and righteousness. This chapter discusses removing excessive doctrines so that people may return to simplicity and thieves will disappear. The first six lines call for an end to self-praise and deliberate displays. The next three explain how to establish teachings, while the final four describe how to put them into practice.

“Abandon sageliness and discard wisdom, and the people will benefit a hundredfold.”

Commentary: Here, “sageliness” refers to sages who deliberately impose their will and establish institutions. “Wisdom” refers to the cleverness of ordinary people who pride themselves on it and deliberately show it off. Deliberate construction leaves traces of human artifice, while boasting and showing off one’s cleverness are not true wisdom. When what is genuine is lost, cunning and deceit arise; when people pursue outward forms, they lose what is fundamental. These practices should therefore all be discarded so that the people may return to simplicity. When natural harmony flows freely and the habit of boasting and showing off cleverness no longer prevails, the people will benefit a hundredfold.

“Abandon benevolence and discard righteousness, and the people will return to filial piety and compassion.”

The previous chapter says, “Only after the great Dao was abandoned did benevolence and righteousness appear.” Here it says, “Abandon benevolence and righteousness, and the people will return to filial devotion and compassion.” This means that when the great Dao prevailed—in the state of “mysterious sameness,” where all things were naturally connected—people made no distinctions between those close to them and those at a distance, and everyone was naturally compassionate and filial. When a principle is truly put into practice, its outward signs disappear; when something is just right, there is no longer any need for a name to describe it. Now that the guiding principles have fallen into disuse, filial devotion and compassion have become conspicuous as named virtues. If people could set aside benevolence understood as indiscriminate love, and righteousness understood as judging right and wrong through distinctions, they would no longer be like fish in rivers and lakes, forced to moisten one another with their spittle—a metaphor for people helping one another only through strained effort. Compassion and filial devotion would become natural again. In this way, the people could recover genuine filial devotion and compassion.

“Abandon cleverness and self-interest, and thieves and robbers will disappear.”

“Abandon cleverness” means putting an end to contrivances that depart from the right way and to excessive artifice. “Abandon self-interest” means no longer pursuing wealth or taking what belongs to others. Thieves and robbers arise because people crave too much and remain dissatisfied. When people no longer compete for the reputation of being clever or covet private gain, they will naturally learn to be content. Who, then, would become a thief or robber? That is why it says they will disappear.

“These three, stated as mere words, are not enough to teach and transform people; they must also be given a point of return.”

The “three” here are: abandoning sagacity and wisdom as the first, abandoning benevolence and righteousness as the second, and abandoning cleverness and self-interest as the third. Simply saying that these things should be abandoned is not enough; it does not yet explain how to cultivate the Way. The text therefore goes on to give their concrete point of return, namely, “show your plain nature and embrace simplicity; reduce selfishness and lessen desire.”

“Show your plain nature and embrace simplicity; reduce selfishness and lessen desire.”

To avoid venerating sagacity and wisdom, one should continually reveal one’s genuine, plain nature. To avoid clinging to the names of benevolence and righteousness, one should preserve simplicity. To avoid pursuing cleverness and private gain, one should reduce selfishness and lessen desire. The three forms of “abandoning” described above are not complete as words alone. To put them into practice through self-cultivation, one must go further and work from within. To root these faults out of the heart, one must rely on one’s own cultivation.

“Chapter Twenty: Learning to Be Free of Worry”

The previous chapter says that when elaborate methods are set aside and one returns to simplicity, thieves have no means to arise. This chapter says that when worldly learning is cast aside, one may appear dull on the surface, while in fact becoming distinctive. The opening sentence identifies what must be renounced; the next seven sentences explain the principle through metaphor; seventeen more contrast ordinary people with the sage; and the final two speak of walking the Way alone, bringing the chapter to a close.

Renounce worldly learning, and there will be no troubles.

The “learning” to be renounced here is contrived, worldly learning pursued to excess. People are born with an unspoiled nature; seeking learning beyond what is fitting often harms that nature. This does not mean that people should stop learning altogether or practice nothing. It means that they should abandon worldly learning that goes against their nature and is pursued to excess. As Zhuangzi says of conventional learning, its aim is to restore people to their original state. Learning that is fitting and in accord with one’s nature is precisely what people of the highest character diligently practice; it need not be renounced.

How far apart are a respectful “Yes” and a careless reply? How far apart are good and evil?

“Wei” is a respectful response. The Rites of Zhou says that when a teacher calls a student, the student should not answer casually with “Nuo,” but should respond respectfully with “Wei” and rise. “A” is a careless reply. In the Book of Han, “shui he” means to interrogate or shout a challenge.

The contrast is illustrated through replies: “Wei” and “A” both come from the same mouth, yet respect appears good and carelessness appears evil. Whether one lets go of worldly learning depends on the mind: renouncing it brings no troubles, while clinging to it gives rise to troubles. Since “Wei” and “A” both come from the mouth, the text asks how far apart they really are. Since the distinction between good and evil lies only in the mind, it asks where the difference truly resides.

If one understands that neither learning nor not learning should be clung to, and that the various appearances of learning are empty in themselves, one can also let go of attachment to what one “knows” and cease making distinctions. Then respect and carelessness, good and evil, no longer burden the mind.

What other people fear, one too cannot help but fear.

People fear arrogance and wrongdoing. Arrogance brings mistakes, while wrongdoing earns contempt. Those who are held in contempt are shunned and scorned by others; those who make mistakes also incur much resentment. Seen in this light, worldly doctrines that prize deliberate action foster disputes over right and wrong. If we do not stay alert to them and put them aside, we will betray our proper duties and damage our nature. We should therefore remain alert and abandon them.

How desolate! Who knows when this will end?

Here, “desolate” means neglected and laid waste. Arrogance and wrongdoing lead to mistakes, while worldly learning causes people to lose their original nature. These are all things to be wary of, and so they should be put aside and abandoned. If we do not abandon them, our upright nature will be laid waste, and no one knows when this will end. The Book of Songs says, “The night is not yet halfway through,” meaning that the night is still long and the water clock has not run out. Here, “not yet halfway through” means that the damage worldly learning does to our nature shows no sign of stopping; the road ahead is still long.

Everyone is bustling about, as if attending a lavish feast or climbing a terrace in spring.

“Bustling” describes desires stirring and the spirit being swept along. This refers to people who neither stay alert to worldly learning nor are willing to abandon it. Worldly learning prizes deliberate action and can stir desire, making people eagerly pursue external things and keep themselves busy throughout their lives. They are like hungry people at a lavish feast, greedily savoring its flavors, or like people climbing a springtime terrace to admire the view, becoming attached to its beauty. “Great sacrificial offerings” refers to the three animals—ox, sheep, and pig. A spring terrace can easily inspire attachment because plants flourish, birds call in pairs, and the mild spring weather makes it easy to sink into desire. The “Airs of Bin” in the Book of Songs says: “Spring days lengthen; we gather mugwort in abundance. Your heart grieves—go with the young lord and return.” It depicts the feelings stirred in the heart by a spring landscape.

Only I am cautious and still, my feelings not yet showing, like an infant who does not yet know how to smile.

I, the Old Master’s self-designation, revere and renounce worldly learning, hold fast to the Great Dao, and nurture inner calm, keeping to myself in quiet simplicity. In matters of deliberate action in the world and the laws of desire and emotion, I leave almost no trace, as though I were an infant who cannot yet laugh or make distinctions. “Child” can also mean “to laugh.” The Zhuangzi says: “Before an infant has begun to laugh, we already know who he is.”

“Moving along and along” describes the manner of motion. When people act, they are often immersed in attachment and always seek something, as if they know where they are going. I, by contrast, have no intention of my own. Quiet and untroubled, I move with the current and stop when I meet an obstacle. It is like a traveler on the Way who does not insist on reaching some particular destination or hurry after anything.

People are absorbed in worldly learning, showing off their cleverness and skill, and clinging to every pursuit, convinced that they have more than enough in every respect. I alone lessen these attachments, letting my mind remain unbound and unentangled, and neither coveting nor becoming stained by things. Thus I seem to have forgotten something.

I can experience all things without clinging to them, so I seem to have forgotten something. Could this really be the mind of a fool? My mind is simply plain and genuine, without desire or attachment; therefore, I seem to have forgotten something.

I can experience all things without clinging to them, so I seem to have forgotten something. Could this really be the mind of a fool? My mind is simply plain and genuine, without desire or attachment; therefore, I seem to have forgotten something.

People of the world appear clever and quick-witted, skilled at displaying their talents. I, by contrast, seem dull and unaware. People of the world are shrewd and exacting, setting up teachings, commands, and laws to restrain others. I, by contrast, am generous and still, and do not concern myself with every detail. Those who display their cleverness and impose strict teachings do so because they have not renounced worldly learning and remain attached to deliberate action. Therefore, the sage reveres and keeps away from such things, appearing silent and obscure.

Suddenly, all seems dark and still, as though there were no fixed limit.

Those who leave worldly learning behind often seem dazed and inattentive, as though dim-witted and confused. Inwardly, however, they are quiet and settled. They never covet or cling to things, nor do they become attached to anything, so they appear to have nothing to rely on.

Everyone else is busy with their undertakings; I alone seem dull and uncouth.

Ordinary people do not know how to stop pursuing worldly learning. They become absorbed in external things, chasing after whatever they encounter without rest. I alone, amid the world, make no distinctions and appear somewhat dull and uncultivated. “Stubborn” means making no distinctions; “uncouth” means seeming crude and inadequate. Inwardly, however, I understand things clearly and fully. The word “seem” shows that this is only how I appear. Here, I am contrasted with everyone else.

I alone am different from everyone else: what I cherish is seeking milk from my mother, as an infant does.

These two lines sum up what came before. I differ from ordinary people who refuse to leave worldly learning behind: they covet things that can be done, while I forget desire; they make distinctions and judgments about all things, while I regard them equally and do not cling to right and wrong. Hence the phrase “different from everyone else.”

“To cherish seeking milk from one’s mother” means that the Old Master urges people to preserve their simplicity and conserve their harmonious Qi, to reduce selfishness and desire, to break free from fixation on sights and sounds, and to stop pursuing fame and status. They should be like infants, seeking milk only from their mother.

Chapter 21: The Appearance of Great De

The previous chapter explains that those who leave worldly learning behind seem dim-witted and are therefore different from everyone else. This chapter explains that by following the utmost truth of the Dao, one can discern the beginning of all things. The opening two lines state that those of great De follow the Dao. The next ten lines explain the Dao’s subtle essence and inner meaning. The five lines beginning “Since ancient times” clarify the names given to the Dao through its workings in the world, and in doing so sum up the De by which the Dao generates all things.

The bearing of a person of great De is simply to follow the Dao.

Kong means “profound”; cong means “to follow”; rong means “bearing” or “form.” This passage explains how a practitioner follows the Dao: a person of deep De has a bearing that follows the Dao of utmost emptiness and stillness.

The Dao seems to be both present and absent, elusive and hard to discern.

This describes the wondrous source of utmost emptiness and stillness—the Dao followed by a person of great De. This source can only be tentatively called the Dao. What is the Dao really like? It cannot be said to exist or not exist. If we say it exists, it is silent and formless; if we say it does not exist, it seems to endure in profound obscurity. Because presence and absence are difficult to distinguish, it is called “elusive.”

Within this elusiveness, images appear.

This describes how the Dao manifests all things from its original substance. Hu refers to absence, while huang refers to presence; the first sign of emergence is called an “image.” The wondrous source is originally formless, so it is called hu. It gives rise to all things, revealing their forms, so it is called huang. In other words, the Dao emerges from formlessness into form, and the images of all things first appear within it. This is the manifestation of traces from the source.

Within this elusiveness, the wondrous source that is the Dao is present.

The “thing” mentioned here is the same “thing” as in the earlier phrase “the Dao as a thing”; it refers to the wondrous source of the Dao. The source gives rise to all things and reveals their many forms. By cultivating one’s nature and returning to one’s original De, one can return to formlessness. Formlessness is the Dao. When people cultivate their nature and return to their original De, they do not leave the wondrous source: they return from form to formlessness and reunite with the great Dao. Thus, “within it there is a thing” means that within it lies a subtle substance. This gathers the manifested traces back into their source.

Within the deep and shadowy, there is subtle Qi.

Yaoming means “deep and shadowy.” After the Dao of utmost emptiness and stillness gives rise to all things, cultivating one’s nature makes it possible to return to the source, gather the traces, and return to the original substance. At this point, the wondrous source is faintly present, profound and hard to fathom, yet it contains the potential for transformation and subtle Qi.

Obscure and deep means profound and difficult to see clearly. When emptiness and stillness reach their utmost, life arises. By cultivating one’s nature and returning to the root, drawing in one’s outward traces and returning to the root, the wondrous workings of all things may become manifest. The Dao is obscure and unfathomable, embracing change; within it lies the most subtle reality. That is why it is said, “Within it there is essence.”

That subtle reality is pure, upright, and without admixture; within it are signs that can be trusted.

The wondrous workings of the Dao are not false or mixed with impurities. The subtle Qi it brings forth is real and pure, which is why it is said, “Its essence is supremely real.” The Dao’s power to generate the myriad things extends through all existence. When the things of the world respond, it invariably answers; it never fails or errs. That is why it is said, “Within it there is trustworthiness.”

From ancient times to the present, the Dao’s name has never disappeared. Through it, we can observe the beginnings of the myriad things.

“Observe” means to look into and examine; “beginnings” means the source. This passage says that the Dao’s power to generate things is profound and real, never exhausted, and consistent from ancient times to the present. Thus the workings of things that follow the Dao—such as the clarity of Heaven and the stillness of Earth—have never disappeared. Since the Dao’s power to generate things is the same in every age, the name by which it appears in the workings of the myriad things has likewise endured from ancient times to the present. By means of the Dao, whose subtle reality is trustworthy and without error, we can observe the beginnings of the myriad things and enable each to fulfill its power to grow and develop.

How do I know that the beginnings of the myriad things are like this? By this principle.

To put it another way: How do I know that the beginnings of all things are received from the Dao, and that the Dao invariably attends to them so they can fulfill their power to come into being? The answer is: because the Dao’s essence is subtle and real, trustworthy and without error. The things before our eyes have all received the Dao and come into being; from this we can know it.

Chapter 22: “Through Yielding, One Is Made Whole”

The previous chapter explained that following the perfectly true Dao enables us to observe the beginnings of the myriad things. This chapter explains that holding to the One of the Dao, taking the Dao as one’s standard, and not contending can bring one to the state of “yielding and remaining whole.” The following six lines explain how one can indeed preserve oneself; the next two identify the conduct of the sage; four more explain the meanings of “yielding,” “whole,” and related terms. Finally, the passage beginning with “For only by not contending” sums up the point: only by not contending can one preserve oneself and return to the Great Dao.

Yielding allows one to remain whole.

Only those who can yield gently and avoid contending with external things can preserve themselves. Hence the saying, “Yield, and you will be preserved.”

“Bent” refers to being oppressed and wronged by external things; “straight” means correcting what is bent and setting it upright. The Spring and Autumn Annals says, “To correct what is bent is to be upright.” If people do not contend with external things, they can endure even the humiliation those things bring. The other party may then feel ashamed and mend their ways. In this way, one’s own uprightness can correct the other party’s crookedness. Hence the saying, “By being wronged, one becomes upright.”

“Low-lying” refers to a hollow place, while “full” means filled. Water flows down to gather in low places; when people live humbly, their De (Virtue/Power) becomes all the more abundant and radiant. Yielding, being wronged, and dwelling low all mean placing oneself in a humble position. To preserve oneself, become upright, and grow full is like water filling a hollow. Hence the saying, “The low-lying becomes full.”

“Worn and humble” refers to being lowly and without distinction. Yielding, being wronged, and dwelling low all mean willingly placing oneself in a humble position. Those who can be content with lowliness are instead esteemed by others, and their De continually renews itself. Hence the saying, “The humble is renewed day by day.”

Those who seek little will not lose anything; hence the saying, “With little, one gains.” Those who wish to possess too much inevitably provoke contention and so fall into confusion. The same is true of self-cultivation and cultivating the Dao: one should hold fast to purity and unity and preserve one’s original nature. If one broadly pursues various heterodox teachings and doctrines, confusion is easily brought on. Just as sheep often go astray because there are too many branching paths, people often lose their lives because they seek too much in too many directions. Therefore, the sage holds fast to purity and unity and does not depart from the original mind, serving as a model for all under Heaven. “Model” means a standard.

One who does not display oneself is therefore clear-sighted.

Not making a show of one’s words and speaking little accords with the Way of nature.

When you do not deliberately display your strengths and often adapt to things around you, your De (Virtue) becomes more evident day by day. Hence the saying, “Yield, and you will remain whole.” Here, “yield” means to bend and accommodate; “remain whole” means to preserve yourself.

When you can bear being wronged for the sake of others, without rushing to defend yourself or insisting that you are right, you will not invite resentment or blame. Integrity will emerge of its own accord. Hence the saying, “Bend, and you will be straight.”

When you do not boast of your achievements and are often willing to defer to others, they will not compete with you for credit, and the credit will instead come to you. Just as water naturally gathers in low-lying places, so the saying goes, “Be low, and you will be filled.”

When you are content with plainness and do not vaunt or flaunt yourself, others will instead esteem and admire you, and your good deeds will continue to grow. Hence the saying, “Be worn, and you will be renewed.”

Precisely because you do not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with you. These ways of yielding in order to remain whole all mean adapting to things and not competing with others. The soft and weak can overcome the hard and strong; humility can also bring a person integrity and fullness. Who under Heaven, then, could contend with such a person?

Could the ancients’ saying, “Yield, and you will remain whole,” really be empty words? It can indeed preserve you, and in the end bring everything back to you. “Genuine” means real and true.

Chapter 23: Sparse Words Accord with Nature

The previous chapter explains that the constant principle of holding to the Dao is non-contention, through which one can yield and remain whole. This chapter explains that those who accord with the Great Dao do not cling to words or fixed opinions, and therefore do not lose the Way of nature. The opening sentence states the central idea; five sayings then use analogy to convey the teaching. From “Those who undertake affairs” onward, the analogies are further explained, bringing the chapter’s teaching to its conclusion.

Words and teachings must not be clung to rigidly. “Rare speech” means reducing one’s reliance on words. Words serve to help people understand the Dao; once they have understood the Dao, they should let go of words, though they should not abandon them altogether. Words are only a means of explaining principles, while the principles of nature do not fit into fixed notions of “being” or “nonbeing.” Thus, “rare speech” does not prescribe that people must either speak or remain silent. Rather, words are used to make the principles of nature clear. If one can rely on teachings to grasp what is subtle, without clinging to the tool itself as one might to a trap or fishing net, one accords with the Dao of nature.

A gale cannot blow all morning; a torrential rain cannot fall all day.

Gales and torrential rains arrive with great force, but cannot last long. Wind can disperse things, and rain can nourish all things; when they become violent and fierce, however, they harm all things and soon subside. This illustrates that words and teachings are meant to clarify principles. If one clings to phrases and doctrines, one cannot truly understand and instead loses one’s way in the Dao. Just as wind and rain should not rage with sudden force, one should not become rigidly attached to words and teachings. The image of wind and rain shows that only by letting go of attachment to words can one accord with nature.

Who brings about these gales and torrential rains? Heaven and Earth do. Even Heaven and Earth cannot make them last; how much less can people?

The question is who brings about gales and torrential rains. The answer is Heaven and Earth. Vast as they are, Heaven and Earth cannot make gales and torrential rains continue for long. How, then, could ordinary people—if they cling to words and teachings, act in haste, and cannot humbly let go—gradually penetrate the matter and ultimately attain understanding?

Therefore, those who practice the Dao,

“Following” means complying with and adapting to things. When emptiness and stillness reach their utmost, one can attain the Great Dao. The Great Dao moves in ways that are far-reaching and without fixed bounds; in its activity among the myriad things, it flows freely without obstruction or stagnation. Thus, anyone who wishes to experience this subtle Great Dao and adapt to things should avoid clinging or becoming rigid. This is why the text says, “engage in the Dao.”

“Those who are of the Dao are united with the Dao” means that those who can follow the Great Dao do not cling or become obstructed. They grasp the principle conveyed by instruction without being bound by its words, and so can accord with the Dao.

“De” is the name for the Dao in its functioning. When the Dao’s activity reaches the myriad things and enables each to attain what it needs, this is called De. Those who realize the Great Dao act in accord with it. They not only come to insight themselves, but also use its power to help living beings. Though living beings receive their beneficence, they do not claim the credit for themselves. Everything they do follows the Dao’s functioning; this is why the text says, “Those who are of De are united with De.”

“Those who are of loss are united with loss” means that clinging to the literal words of instruction can cause one to lose the Dao. Instruction is like a basket for catching fish or a net for catching rabbits: it is a tool that guides people toward understanding. Once the fish or rabbit has been caught, there is no need to cling to the tool. If one holds fast to instruction, one loses the subtle principle to which it points; having lost the principle, one cannot attain the Dao. This is why the text says, “Those who are of loss are united with loss.”

The Dao accepts those who accord with it; De comes to those who accord with De; and loss comes to those who accord with loss.

All things respond to one another because they share the same Qi. When a tiger roars, wind rises; when a crane calls, young cranes answer. People of different temperaments grow distant from one another, like the liver and gallbladder, though both within the body, separated as if they belonged to the states of Chu and Yue. Those with shared aims and interests can draw close and live together, whether they are Yi or Xia people—ancient terms for people from different regions. Things naturally gather according to their kind. Thus, those who accord with the Dao receive a response from the Dao, while those who accord with the loss of the Dao invite its consequences. It is like the fangzhu, an ancient vessel for drawing water, which gathers and releases water when turned toward the moon; or the yangsui, an ancient fire-making device, which draws forth fire when it reflects the sun. So those who accord with the Dao are joined by the Dao.

When faith is insufficient, disbelief arises.

People fail to grasp principles, understand truth, and let go of words because their faith and understanding are inadequate; doubt and obstruction follow. Once doubt takes hold in the heart, people become attached to words and try to reach understanding through phrases and sentences. This only leaves them more confused and mistaken, and so disbelief arises. Thus, when faith is insufficient, disbelief arises.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Standing on tiptoe is unstable; taking long strides will not get you far.

The previous chapter explained that once one grasps the principle, one should forget words and cease clinging to them. This chapter explains that self-display, self-righteousness, and boasting of one’s achievements invite the aversion of other things. The opening two lines use images to show that certain ways of acting are hard to sustain; the next four lines explain that striving deliberately for something does not make it attainable. The text then goes on to urge those who cultivate the Dao not to remain attached to such ways of acting.

Those who stand on tiptoe are unsteady; those who take long strides do not get far.

To stand on tiptoe is to raise one’s heels to look into the distance; to stride is to take long steps. When people stretch their necks and rise onto their heels to see farther, their bodies sway and they cannot stand firmly. Taking steps that are too large can also lead to stumbling and prevent steady progress. This serves as a metaphor for people’s self-display and self-righteousness. Those who stand on tiptoe are unsteady; those who stride too far do not get far. The self-promoting cannot see clearly, and the self-righteous cannot make themselves shine forth. The principle is plain.

Those who think they see clearly cannot, in fact, see clearly.

Those who are eager to display themselves do not learn from the successes and failures of those who came before them. They show off their talents and boast of themselves, thinking this will prove their worth. Yet the more they act to draw attention, the more readily they invite blame, and the harder it is to gain others’ support. As a result, their own endeavors fade into obscurity. Thus, those who display themselves cannot see things clearly.

Those who think themselves right cannot be brought to prominence.

Explanation: People may lack the ability to act with balance and care, yet still consider themselves right and persist in boasting, striving to stand out in the hope of making their name known and elevating themselves. This only arouses resentment and makes them hard to tolerate. Criticism from others comes one after another, and their name is therefore hard to make known. Thus, those who think themselves right cannot be brought to prominence.

Those who boast of their achievements cannot accomplish great things.

Explanation: Humility is the foundation of Virtue (De); yielding credit is an expression of proper conduct. Without the way of deference, it is difficult to accomplish anything. What is more, those who act unilaterally, compete for credit, and seek rewards in the hope of establishing their achievements will fail if they refuse to yield. Their refusal stirs up rivalry, and their achievements lose their proper weight. Thus, those who boast of their achievements cannot accomplish great things.

Those who vaunt themselves cannot endure.

Explanation: People of deep Virtue often appear plain and modest. This is a principle recognized by the worthy of old. Flaunting one’s reputation and status and acting as though one were exceptional invites the disdain of many; looking out only for oneself and refusing to yield brings ridicule as well. Those who vaunt themselves hope to improve their standing, but only incur the resentment of others. They earn no respect and cannot endure. Thus, those who vaunt themselves cannot endure.

In relation to the Dao, these practices are like leftover food and excessive growths. Leftover food is unclean; excessive growths are ailments of the body. Viewed by the standard of the Dao, such conduct as displaying oneself and thinking oneself right is like leftover food and excessive growths: it is loathed by others. The phrase “excessive conduct” refers to such behavior as a growth upon one’s Virtue. The Spring and Autumn Annals says, “Others will not eat my leftovers.” Zhuangzi says, “Warts and hanging lumps of flesh grow upon the body, yet go beyond its nature.”

Because people loathe these behaviors, those who follow the Dao do not engage in them.

There is a wondrous, undivided presence that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. Silent and boundless, it exists on its own, naturally, and never changes. Yet its movement extends through all things, without pause or peril. It can be the source and mother of all things under Heaven.

The “wondrous presence” refers to the Dao, profound and still in its emptiness. It embraces all things, and their coming into being and transformation stem from it. Though it is itself silent and empty, it responds to all things and brings them into action. This action is not deliberate, yet it reaches everywhere.

The mysterious Source gives birth to all things and pervades everything that exists in the world. Nothing is not generated by it. Through its power to nourish all things, it becomes the root of everything under Heaven. For this reason, the word “mother” means nourishing and bringing up.

“I do not know its name, so I call it ‘Dao’ (the Way). If I must give it a name, I call it ‘Great.’”

A designation expresses its qualities; a name identifies its essential nature. The Old Master said that the mysterious Source gives birth to all things and acts with boundless reach. It is still and empty, and has no definite form. It came into being before Heaven and Earth, and its origins are difficult to explain. So I do not know its name. I see only that it reaches through all things, and therefore wish to use “Dao” to express its inherent quality. It encompasses everything and has no bounds, so I reluctantly use the name “Great” to describe its utterly empty, formless nature.

Ordinary things receive a name before they receive a designation because they grow gradually from small beginnings; the Dao, by contrast, receives a designation before it receives a name…