《大明太祖高皇帝御注道德真经》

Preface to the Imperial Commentary on the True Scripture of the Dao and Its Virtue by the Hongwu Emperor of the Ming

I was born into poverty. Just as the Yuan dynasty’s fortunes were declining and rival powers were rising everywhere, I could no longer live safely in my home village and had no choice but to join the army to survive. Several times I nearly lost my life. After spending only a few years under another’s command, I broke free of his control and took charge of the regional lords. I held my ground in Jiangzuo, the lower Yangtze region, for thirteen years. Then I ascended the throne, took the Mandate of Heaven to replace the Yuan, and came to rule the people of the realm.

After taking the throne, I did not understand how the wise rulers of earlier dynasties had governed. I worried day and night, fearing that I would fail Heaven’s expectations. I therefore sought advice on the principles of governing, but everyone offered only their own opinions; none truly understood the teachings of the worthy men of antiquity.

One day, while browsing through books, I happened upon a copy of the Dao De Jing and began reading it. Many of its passages explain the Way. Its wording is plain, yet its meaning profound, making it difficult to grasp. Ten or so days later, I found other editions and saw that their commentaries differed: each had its own interpretation. I read and pondered them over and over for a long time. I felt that, through my own understanding, I might be able to make sense of some of the text, and thought of trying my hand at a commentary for later generations to consult. But I feared that they would mock me, so in the end I did not begin writing.

Later, I read the passage in the scripture: “If the people do not fear death, how can they be frightened with death?” At that time, the realm had only just been pacified. The people were unruly, and the officials had their failings. Ten people might be executed in the morning, yet by evening more than a hundred would still have broken the law. Did this situation not bear out the scripture’s words? So I abolished the harshest punishments and instead punished offenders with confinement and forced labor. In less than a year, the dread in my heart had eased.

I also reflected carefully on how this scripture’s teachings could be applied to worldly affairs. Its principles are like dense clouds veiling range upon range of mountains: the surface seems open and empty, while what lies within is substantial; the scene appears clear, yet is not quite as it seems. It is also like a strange and beautiful peak rising in an empty valley: mountains that once towered high suddenly become deep valleys. Without understanding its meaning, one is like entering the primordial chaos. Just as one begins to grasp a hint of its subtle intent, it is like the bright moon sinking into a clear, deep pool. One seems able to see the true scene in a mirror, yet can never reach out and touch it.

What is more, this scripture says, “My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice, yet no one under heaven can truly understand them or put them into practice.” Thinking about this, are they not like the images reflected in a bright mirror and the moon in water? I pondered deeply in the middle of the night: the reflection in the mirror and the moon in water resemble their forms, yet they are illusory and unreal. If there were no real object elsewhere to serve as their basis, how could such images appear? Thus, when we look up at the sky, the moon’s bright image appears in the water; when we set down the mirror and touch our own bodies, we know that we ourselves are not illusory. This is to seek what is real beyond things, and so to discover a little of their subtle meaning. Therefore, on the Jiawu day in the twelfth month of the winter of the seventh year of Hongwu, I began to write and made a modest attempt at explanation. I do not know whether people in later generations will truly accord with the minds of the wise.

My natural abilities are limited. I know only that this scripture sets forth the most fundamental principles of all things, is the finest teacher for rulers, and is the most precious classic for officials and common people. It does not teach the arts of Golden Elixir cultivation. I have devoted all my sincerity and thought to it, hoping to benefit those who come after me, and have therefore composed this commentary. It was completed on the Jiachen day of that year, and I now write this preface.

Volume One of the Imperial Commentary on the Dao De Jing by the Great Ming Taizu, the Lofty Emperor

The Dao that can be spoken of is not the eternal Dao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name.

From the Son of Heaven down to ordinary people, all who aspire to follow the Dao should practice a way that goes beyond what ordinary people do. This is the “extraordinary Dao.” Dao can also mean a road. When people discipline themselves and handle affairs with no other desires in their hearts, and devote themselves to following this road, then the heart is the road, and the road is the heart. To persist without changing is the extraordinary Dao.

The “Dao” in “the Dao that can be spoken of” refers to this Dao that can be put into words; it means the Great Dao that surpasses ordinary people. Once the Dao is cultivated to completion, its name can endure. This is the extraordinary name: it can be practiced and it can be learned.

The Dao is deep and subtle. When still, it has no form or name; once set in motion, it can bring benefit. This is like the Supreme Ultimate (Taiji) arising from the Limitless. For example, as ruler of the realm, I may keep plans for good governance in my heart day after day without yet putting them into practice. Who could know what they are called? Once I act on them, rewards and punishments follow. Such thoughts of reward and punishment belong not only to a ruler: worthy people and exemplary gentlemen also hold aspirations that can benefit and aid all things.

Thus, “the nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth” may describe the moment when an exemplary person keeps a heart of benevolence within, before putting it into action. When that benevolent heart is put into practice to aid all things, it takes on a name and becomes visible. Is this not “the mother of the myriad things”?

Only by remaining free of seeking can one observe the Dao’s subtlety; only by remaining intent on action can one observe the bounds of things.

To observe the Dao’s subtlety with a mind free of desire means that the Dao has been put into practice without seeking others’ praise. Instead, one sincerely examines the truth within it. Hence the saying, “Always without desire, observe its subtlety.” As for “always with desire, observe its bounds,” the desire here is not some other kind of craving. It is the wish for good work to be carried through fully, and the concern that it may be incomplete, which leads one to keep planning with care. It does not mean pursuing sights and sounds, wealth, or profit. “Bounds” refers to limits and scope.

These two arise from the same Dao, though they have different names; both may be called deep and mysterious. Mystery within mystery is the gateway to all subtle principles.

The principle described above is very wondrous, so it is praised once more.

Everyone in the world knows what makes beauty beautiful; once the idea of beauty is established, ugliness appears alongside it. Everyone in the world knows what makes goodness good; then badness appears alongside it.

Among kings, ministers, and common people, whoever is able to follow the Dao should faithfully practice this great Way. They should not add another set of doctrines to it, nor keep piling on more good deeds. Whatever is contrived through cleverness in these two matters may look good on the surface, but can last only for a time; it is not the Way that endures. When what is beautiful fades, its faults appear; when good deeds reach their limit, what is not good follows.

Those who govern the world should let the people live in peace and contentment, without making them feel that the ruler’s De is anything special. Even if the ruler truly has virtue, deliberately displaying it can last only for a time; it is not the Way that endures. When what is beautiful fades, its faults appear; when good deeds reach their limit, what is not good follows. In governing the world, what matters is to keep the people at peace, so that they do not even know what the ruler’s De is like. As an old man in the fields once said, “What does the emperor’s power have to do with me?” In other words, the people live in peace and contentment, without feeling that their lives depend on the ruler’s accomplishments.

Thus being and nonbeing give rise to each other; difficult and easy bring each other about; long and short define each other; high and low depend on each other; notes and tones harmonize with one another; front and back follow one another.

This merely restates the meaning of the preceding passage, using examples of mutual dependence to make the point: only through “being” does “nonbeing” arise; only through difficulty does ease become apparent; only through length does shortness become apparent; where there is height, there must also be something low. For sound to form harmony, high and low notes must work together.

Therefore, the sage handles affairs through Wuwei (non-action) and carries out teaching without words. Here, “Wuwei” means that the sage faithfully follows the great Way already established and does not create new things according to private intentions. “Teaching without words” means not wanting the people to boast about or praise the sage. That is why the next passage says that the myriad things grow without being spoken of: the sage nurtures them but does not claim credit.

The myriad things arise, and the sage does not interfere with them or boast about them. The sage lets them grow without claiming them as his own, acts without relying on his achievements, and completes tasks without taking credit. Precisely because he does not claim credit, his accomplishments do not depart.

This means that the sage benefits and helps the myriad things without boasting of himself; he nurtures them without claiming them as his own. After succeeding, he does not take credit: he does not claim the results as his own, but lets them find their proper place. “They do not depart” means that his accomplishments are not lost or cast aside.

The above is the second chapter.

“By not honoring the able, one keeps the people from competing; by not valuing rare and hard-to-find goods, one keeps the people from fighting over them.”

When those regarded as worthy and capable are not elevated, the people will not contend with one another. When rare and precious goods are not prized, the people will not steal. When things that stir up desire are not displayed before them, the people’s minds will not be thrown into confusion.

The thatched hut commentator has already explained these points. I will add a few words. Laozi’s intention is profound. A state that esteems the worthy and capable often gives rise to many troubles. When rare goods are valued too highly, the people fear they will be stolen. Even if a state has honest, simple ministers who can bring peace to the realm, if the ruler constantly exalts the worthy and capable, people will learn to put on an appearance of worthiness, deceive others, and seek favor. Once they can imitate this behavior, someone may later use it to approach the ruler, while the ministers who were originally honest and sincere may suffer calamity or be forced to leave. That is why Laozi says, “Do not display things that can be desired, and the people’s minds will not be thrown into disorder.” The general idea is that if people are not taught whom to regard as worthy of honor, and do not come to prize rare goods, the realm can be at peace.

Therefore, when the sage governs the realm, the people’s minds are kept free from disturbance and their clothing and food are made sufficient. Their impulse to compete and prevail is weakened, while their sinews and bones are strengthened.

The sage keeps life simple and frugal, and does not indulge in excessive comforts. To make the people prosperous is to make their “bellies full.” When the people prosper, the foundations of the state are secure. But one must not rely on their prosperity to presume that the state is powerful, then launch ventures and create disorder. This is what it means to provide the people with sufficient clothing and food, weaken their desire to outdo others, and strengthen their bodies.

The people are continually kept free of clever schemes and excessive desire. This is what was said earlier: do not deliberately exalt the worthy and capable or prize rare goods, so that seeing such things does not awaken covetousness in the people.

Even those who consider themselves clever will not dare to act recklessly. Knowing that the state does not exalt such things, they will not deliberately pursue them, even if they privately admire them.

Act according to the principle of Wuwei (non-action), and nothing in the realm will remain ungoverned. At first, each matter must still be handled diligently and brought to completion in keeping with its underlying principles. Only once the realm is at peace can one govern through Wuwei.

The above is Chapter Three.

The Dao’s body is empty and formless, yet in its use it seems never to be exhausted. It is deep and unfathomable, as though it were the common source of all things.

The Dao is profound and subtle, far-reaching and without end; its use is inexhaustible. When it rests in stillness, no trace of it can be seen. To use it up all at once would go against its nature. This means that the Dao is like an empty vessel: its function is boundless, yet it is never filled. How deep and distant it is—the source of all things. A noble person who wishes to follow it should proceed calmly and unhurriedly.

Blunt the sharpness, untangle the confusion, soften the radiance, and blend with the dusty world. It is deep and remote, seeming to exist yet remaining hard to grasp.

If your talent and insight show themselves too sharply, you should curb their edge. If your mind is in turmoil, clear away the thoughts that disturb it and let it return to stillness. If the light within you shines too brightly, soften its radiance while keeping your insight hidden within, so that your heart remains clear. These principles of “blunting sharpness, untangling confusion, softening radiance, and blending with dust” are Laozi’s counsel that people should not go to extremes in their actions, but should preserve their De (Virtue) and put it into practice through benevolence.

“I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.”

Laozi asks with a sigh, “I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.” The meaning here is that even if the light within one’s heart is as brilliant as that of the Lord of Heaven, one should not display it excessively. Instead, one should preserve one’s De and put it into practice through benevolence.

“I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.”

Laozi asks with a sigh, “I do not know whose descendant the Dao is; it seems to have existed before the Lord of Heaven.” The term “celestial phenomena” may be difficult to explain. According to Master Caolu, it refers here to the workings of the heavens. The Lord of Heaven is the ruler who governs the celestial realm; that is, broadly speaking, what the passage says.

This concludes Chapter Four.

Heaven and Earth have no partial affection: they treat the myriad things as straw dogs used in ritual. The sage, too, has no partial affection: the sage treats the people as straw dogs used in ritual.

This passage teaches people to follow the constant Dao in their conduct: do not hold on to things simply because you value them, but do not discard them carelessly either. “Straw dogs” were dogs woven from straw for ancient prayers; once the ritual ended, they were thrown away. A ruler cannot govern the world for a time and then let go of it, as though the rite were over and the straw dogs could be discarded. Nor, after Heaven and Earth join to form the four seasons, do they stop regulating them. Heaven and Earth endure because the seasons continue through the ages without slackening. If a ruler follows their constant way of continually bringing forth and sustaining life, the people will not be treated like straw dogs, used and then cast aside.

Is the space between Heaven and Earth not like a bellows? Though hollow within, it is never exhausted. Set it in motion, and air keeps pouring out.

The sage’s mind can be both empty and still, and full; it knows both how to cherish and how to let go. What ought to be cherished is cherished always; what ought to be let go is always released. In this sense, the sage seems to let go without letting go, and to cherish without clinging, allowing the people to follow their own nature. The passage compares this to the bellows used in smelting: it looks empty, yet when worked, it sends out a steady stream of air. When drawn closed, it seems to contain nothing, but it is not truly empty. The bellows can produce air whenever needed, just as the sage’s mind remains wholly focused in governing the world. That is why the text uses “bellows” to describe it.

Too many words often lead to difficulty. It is better to keep to inner emptiness, stillness, and balance. The “Valley Spirit”—the Dao, empty and still like a valley yet ceaselessly giving life—does not perish. This is called the “Mysterious Female,” the deep maternal source that brings things into being. The “Gate of the Mysterious Female” is the source of Heaven, Earth, and all things. It continues without interruption, seeming to exist and not to exist; yet in its action, it is never exhausted.

A person’s noble, all-encompassing Qi is Shen, and Shen is also Qi. The human body has a heart, and within the heart are openings. These openings are like a valley, and Qi is Shen. If Qi can remain present at all times, the Valley Spirit will not perish; if the Valley Spirit does not perish, a person can live long. Here the ruler’s body is compared to the realm, its state, and its people, and the ruler’s vital spirit is compared to a king: when the king follows the Way with skill, the state enjoys lasting peace and stability, and the people live in peace. The body is also compared to Heaven and Earth. When Qi does not move recklessly but remains within the body, it is called the “root of Heaven and Earth.” If it is nurtured, and the breath flows on without interruption, continually functioning in accordance with principle, it will not be depleted.

The above is Chapter Five.

Heaven is long-lasting and Earth endures. Heaven and Earth can last and endure because they do not live for themselves; that is why they can last.

People do not easily understand the idea that Heaven and Earth do not live for themselves. Heaven and Earth do not operate solely for their own sake. What people see is wind, rain, frost, and dew continually nourishing the world, never ceasing from ancient times to the present; what they do not see is Heaven and Earth seeking anything for themselves. This saying is used here to teach later generations.

Therefore, the sage puts himself last and is able to stand at the front; he sets himself aside and is able to preserve himself. Is this not because he has no selfish motives? In this way, he is able to fulfill himself.

Putting himself last means living simply and not seeking luxury. Setting himself aside means not deliberately pursuing personal abundance and comfort; he takes on hardship first and enjoys ease afterward. The sage acts this way to aid others and benefit all things. Precisely because he is selfless, he fulfills his own Way. If this is not a selfish motive, then what is?

The above is Chapter Six.

The highest goodness is like water. Water is skilled at nourishing all things, yet it does not contend with them. It settles in low places that people dislike, and so it is closest to the Dao (the fundamental principle governing the movement of all things).

This passage says that Laozi taught people to follow the Dao, cultivate their nature and refine their De, helping others with a compassionate heart and bringing benefit to all things. Water moistens and benefits everything it reaches. People of De therefore emulate its qualities: they willingly remain in low places and do not exalt themselves; they offer help and bring benefit to others. This is in accord with the Dao.

“Dwell in a fitting place; keep the heart deep; meet others with compassion; speak with trustworthiness; govern with order; handle affairs with skill; act at the right time.” Choose a suitable place to live; keep the heart deep and broad; treat others with compassion; keep your word; govern affairs in an orderly way; handle tasks competently; and act when the time is right. People of De help one another and bring out the best in one another. By spending time with good people, they broaden their own hearts and deepen their good conduct. When people treat one another with trust and compassion, affairs of state can be governed well. Understanding the principles of good administration makes it possible to handle all kinds of affairs properly and act at the right moment. The earlier phrase “keep the heart deep” means accumulating goodness profoundly and doing good without exhaustion, like a deep spring.

Precisely because they do not contend with others, they incur neither fault nor resentment.

When you have accomplished something, know when to stop; do not go too far.

Chapter Seven

Holding a vessel while filling it to the brim is not as good as stopping in time. Sharpening something until it is too keen makes it difficult to keep it that way for long.

This is like carrying a bowl of water: if it is filled too full, the water will spill; if there is room to spare, you can carry it steadily without wasting any, while still keeping what you need. So anything filled to excess is liable to be depleted. The same is true of sharpening a vessel until it is too keen: neither things nor people’s ambitions should be taken to excess, or they will not last.

No one can keep a house piled high with gold and jade forever. Pride after attaining wealth and status only invites trouble. After achieving success and gaining renown, being able to withdraw without clinging to them is in accord with the Way of Heaven.

There are people in the world who, after attaining wealth and honor, often fail to hold on to them for long. Why? Relying on their position, they indulge themselves, grow arrogant and conceited, and never stop showing off. This invites further misfortune and brings harm to both themselves and their reputations. Since their downfall is of their own making, they find it hard to keep their wealth and honor. That is why the ancients used the saying “When the work is done and the name fulfilled, withdraw” to warn people. “The work is done” means that great achievements have been made; “the name fulfilled” means that one’s wishes have been realized. “Withdraw” means that at this point one should be humble and stop seeking to display oneself. It does not mean leaving the world or resigning from everything.

The above is Chapter Eight.

“Can you carry the body and embrace the One without letting them part? Can you concentrate your Qi (vital energy) and become supple as a newborn? Can you cleanse the dark mirror and leave it without blemish?”

“Carry” compares the body to a cart and the mind to a stronghold; “soul” refers to the spirit and vital soul. Taken together, these describe two things: body and soul. The phrase “carry the body and soul” is an ingenious turn of speech. According to Laozi’s teaching, the soul governs the vital soul. If a person can keep the soul from separating from the vital soul, the body will remain sound. If the soul can stay settled in the body rather than wandering off without restraint, this is “concentrating the Qi.” When one neither wanders heedlessly nor harbors hidden desires, this is “cleansing the dark mirror.” Once private desires have been eliminated, the mind becomes wholly pure and unified, like that of a newborn. How, then, could there be any blemish?

“Can you love the people and govern the state through Wuwei (non-action)? Can you open and close the heavenly gate while remaining receptive? Can you understand all things clearly without relying on knowledge?”

When a noble person cultivates himself and conducts affairs, and when a ruler governs a state, both must set out clear principles and rules. Does this mean knowing nothing about what is happening and doing nothing at all? The key is to act at the right time and to do things properly. Within the heart, good and evil in the world must be clearly distinguished; the essential point is to remove evil and preserve good. A noble person can benefit people, while a ruler can aid all things. This is how one cares for the people and governs a state. Do not let the spirit become forceful and show off its bravery. To act according to this principle is to remain yielding.

Thus Laozi uses breathing through the nostrils to explain the “Gate of Heaven,” and speaks of Qi and Shen governing the body to describe cultivation. When a person acts recklessly and strains the sinews and bones until the breath becomes harsh, this is forcefulness. To harmonize Qi and blood and bring them to calm is to remain yielding; when the body is settled, the spirit can endure. If the body is not at peace, the spirit will sooner or later scatter. The same applies to governing a state: the ruler is the people’s master, and if he repeatedly acts recklessly, the people will suffer. When the people are exhausted, the state will perish. This is indeed so.

Allowing the people to rest, recover, and build up their resources is called “giving life and nurturing” (helping all things grow and sustaining them). When the ruler does not readily make demands of the people, this is called “not claiming possession.” When all under Heaven is at peace and the ruler does not boast of his abilities, this is called “not relying on oneself” (not taking personal credit). As the population gradually flourishes, the ruler does not monopolize authority but lets officials at every level fulfill their duties. This is called “helping things grow without ruling over them.” This profound and subtle principle is called “Mysterious De” (deep and hidden Virtue).

The above is Chapter Nine.

Thirty spokes converge at a hub. The wheel’s center is empty, and that is what makes the wheel useful. Clay is shaped into a vessel. Its center is empty, and that is what makes the vessel useful. Doors and windows are cut into a house. Its interior is empty, and that is what makes the house useful. Thus, what has form brings convenience, while emptiness is what gives things their practical use.

The convergence of thirty spokes at a hub was an ancient method of making a wheel: thirty spokes from each wheel joined at one hub to form a wheel. This passage speaks of a single wheel. The text then explains that the wheel’s solid parts bring convenience, while the empty space at its center is what allows it to serve its purpose.

Thirty spokes meet at the hub to form a wheel. A household keeps a spare wheel so it can replace one that breaks while in use; this is what makes the cart practically useful. Kneading clay into a vessel is how pottery is made. A household keeps spare vessels so that one can be replaced if it breaks in use; this is what makes vessels useful. To say that doors and windows are cut into a house means that they are fitted when the house is built. After a house has been lived in for a long time, its doors and windows may be damaged, so replacements must also be kept ready. The scripture’s words, “What is there provides benefit; what is not there provides use,” speak precisely of the convenience offered by material things and the function served by empty space. The sage teaches people to act in a way that keeps inner and outer in balance and prevents things from collapsing. Rulers, ministers, and ordinary people alike should understand this principle.

The five colors dazzle the eyes, the five notes dull the hearing, and the five flavors spoil the palate. Giving oneself over to fast horses and hunting throws the mind into frenzy; coveting rare goods obstructs one’s conduct. The sage therefore focuses on meeting the people’s basic needs rather than pursuing sensory pleasures. They set aside temptations and choose what is essential.

This chapter specifically warns people against coveting desires, losing themselves in amusements, becoming infatuated with sights and sounds, and placing too much value on wealth. The situations it describes are straightforward: hunting outdoors, indulging in sexual pleasures at home, drinking to excess and reveling, building lofty towers, and decorating ornate walls are all examples. “Belly” is a metaphor for the people. Providing for the people’s livelihood is a ruler’s duty. If a ruler does not covet sights and sounds, flavors, hunting, or wealth, then the ruler sets aside private desires and chooses what the people need. This also expresses the principle that by putting oneself last, one can come to the fore; by not clinging to oneself, one can preserve oneself.

That was Chapter 11.

Receiving favor or suffering disgrace is like being startled. Regard a great calamity as you regard your own self. What does it mean to receive favor or suffer disgrace? Disgrace means being in a low position. Whether one gains favor or loses it, one feels alarmed. What does it mean to regard a great calamity as you regard your own self? The reason I have great calamities is that I have a body. How profound!

That was Chapter 11.

Receiving favor or suffering disgrace is like being startled. Regard a great calamity as you regard your own self. What does it mean to receive favor or suffer disgrace? Disgrace means being in a low position. Whether one gains favor or loses it, one feels alarmed. What does it mean to regard a great calamity as you regard your own self? The reason I have great calamities is that I have a body; if I had no body, what calamity could befall me? Therefore, one who values oneself as highly as the world may be entrusted with the world; one who cherishes the world as dearly as oneself may be given charge of it.

If a ruler takes responsibility for the world, he will worry about great calamities befalling it just as if he himself were gravely ill. Then the world can be at peace. If he cannot do this, the world will be imperiled and decline. This is why one should remain wary in the face of both favor and disgrace. Ordinary people do not expect to receive an official post; when they do, they are startled and delighted. Yet after serving for a long time and becoming wealthy and honored, they know only how to glorify themselves and do not understand how to preserve themselves. When the body is ill, people seek a physician and take steps to keep the illness from worsening. If one guarded against the harms brought by wealth and rank as carefully as one guards against illness, one could preserve oneself. If one cannot do this, one will be alarmed when favor or status is lost. If a ruler is willing to take responsibility for the world and regard the people’s safety and well-being as his own, he can act in the world with composure and without fear. But if he cares only for himself and treats the world as something separate from him, with no concern for the people, then even with thousands upon thousands of soldiers at his side, he will still fear losing control of the situation. Thus, only by cherishing the world as dearly as himself can an emperor attain prosperity.

That was Chapter 12.

Look at it, but it cannot be seen; this is called “the Inaudible.” Listen for it, but it cannot be heard; this is called “the Inaudible.” Reach out to touch it, but it cannot be grasped; this is called “the Subtle.” These three cannot be pursued to their limits, so they merge into one.

The profound subtlety of the Great Dao, the fundamental Way of the cosmos, is just so. “Look for it, but it cannot be seen” refers to the Dao; “listen for it, but it cannot be heard” refers to principle; “try to touch it, but it cannot be grasped” refers to Qi. Calling it “Yi,” “Xi,” and “Wei” means that it is plain and formless, difficult to perceive. These three cannot be pursued to their ultimate source: they are formless yet seem to have form, have an image yet seem to have no image, and are difficult to put into words. To unite them as one is to concentrate one’s Qi and gather one’s Shen.

It is not bright above, nor dark below. It stretches on without end and cannot be named; in the end, it returns to a state of nothingness. This is called “the form of the formless, the image of the imageless”—that is, the elusive.

The Great Dao and principle are neither conspicuous nor obscure. If one says they are nothing at all, they nevertheless become manifest: their order is clear, and things proceed through them. Yet their pivotal workings leave no name or trace; they seem to draw inward, still and silent, and no one knows where they are headed. They have an image yet no image, form yet no form—perhaps this refers to the human mind and the Dao mind, the mind attuned to the Great Dao. These are profoundly subtle; no one but a noble person can hold fast to them. Though they enable things to proceed in an orderly way, their pivotal workings leave no name or trace and are still and unfathomable. Hence they are called elusive. “Elusive” means that they change unpredictably and move with great speed.

Face it, and you cannot see its head; follow it, and you cannot see its tail. Grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times, and you can govern everything in the present. To know the source of all things is to have grasped the guiding principle of the Dao.

The Great Dao and principle are one undivided whole, precisely in a state that cannot be seen or heard. When people grasp the Dao that has existed since ancient times and use it to respond to the circumstances of the present, they govern what exists now. Human principles are rooted in one’s nature. What Heaven bestows is called “nature”; following one’s nature is called the Dao; cultivating and clarifying the Great Dao is called “teaching.” All of these refer to the guiding principle of the Dao.

The above is Chapter Thirteen.

In ancient times, those who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, penetrating the depths; they were unfathomable. Because they were difficult to understand, one can only describe their appearance in tentative terms.

What a noble person upholds is the guiding principle of the Way of Heaven.

The above is still designated Chapter Thirteen.

In ancient times, those skilled in cultivating the Dao had minds subtle and mysterious, penetrating and profound. They were so deep that others could not fathom them. Because they were so hard to fathom, people could only resort to images to describe them.

The noble person embodies the purest Qi between Heaven and Earth. Thus, he possesses wisdom akin to that of the spirits, yet does not act rashly or recklessly. When he acts, his deeds accord with reason; when he is still, his spirit remains within his heart. Others cannot tell what he is thinking or doing, so he seems profound and elusive. Laozi used metaphors to describe this state, while others tried to impose various labels on it, hoping thereby to peer inside.

Cautious, as if crossing a river in winter; alert, as if wary of those around him; dignified, like a guest; relaxed, like ice about to melt; simple and solid, like uncarved wood; open, like a valley; indistinct, like muddy water.

This describes the noble person discussed earlier: he is full of benevolence and steadfast in purpose, so others cannot easily discern his thoughts or intentions. The text sets out seven kinds of probing to show how difficult it is to uncover his inner workings, and thereby urges later generations to remain steadfast in cultivating the Dao. It uses the animals “you” and “yu” as images of hesitation and caution, and depicts a dignified bearing, a relaxed and unhurried state, a solid and unadorned nature, and an indistinct appearance. These are different ways of trying to unsettle and scrutinize him. Yet however he is tested, his true nature remains beyond reach. The mind of a worthy and noble person is indeed hard to shake. How could a petty person possibly achieve the same?

Who can still muddy water and let it slowly clear? Who can stir what is settled so that life gradually emerges?

This means: when someone is like this, who can perceive the darkness within his heart and make him clear-minded? When the noble person is in motion, who can make him still? When he appears indistinct, who can make him clear and bright? When he rests in quiet self-possession, who can use cleverness to unsettle him? When the noble person’s thoughts have not yet emerged, who can use a scheme to make them gradually sprout?

One who holds to this Dao does not seek completeness. Precisely because he does not seek completeness, he may seem imperfect, yet can endure for a long time and will not quickly become worn out.

The meaning of this passage is that cultivating oneself and keeping to the Dao does not require striving for excessive perfection. What is not filled to the brim is less likely to be damaged; when nothing has been damaged, there is no need to restore it. Holding to this principle is not difficult.

This concludes Chapter Fourteen.

Bring the stillness and emptiness of the heart to their fullest, and firmly maintain a state of quiet focus. “Bringing emptiness to its utmost” means letting go of delusions and personal desires; “steadfastly maintaining stillness” means holding to a mind of few desires. “Steadfast” carries the sense of being sincere and grounded.

All things grow together, and I observe how they return to their source. Though all things flourish in abundance, in the end they each return to their roots. Returning to the root is called “stillness”; becoming still is a return to life’s original nature. Returning to one’s nature means following the constant Dao. Only those who understand the constant Dao can be called wise. Those who do not understand it act recklessly and invite danger.

Those who understand the constant Dao can be inclusive. Being inclusive, they can be fair; being fair, they can become leaders whom all respect. As leaders, they accord with the Way of Heaven; in accord with the Way of Heaven, they accord with the Dao. Those who accord with the Dao can endure, remaining free from danger throughout their lives.

A noble person who studies the Dao (the Way) should model himself on the workings of Heaven and Earth and follow the unchanging patterns of the four seasons. He should therefore bring his mind to a state of emptiness, stillness, and purity, and firmly maintain tranquility. Since the mind observes the cycles of all things, one should take Heaven and Earth as a model. The scripture says, “All things arise together; then we observe their return.” This means that after all things grow at once, we should also observe how they return to their source.

“Mandate” means that things have a beginning and an end, and cycle back without disorder. A noble person who upholds the Dao and practices benevolence should likewise be orderly, like the changing seasons. “Returning to the Mandate” means that after things sprout, they grow; after growing, they mature; after maturing, they draw inward; and after drawing inward, they return to their beginning. The following year, the cycle begins again. This is why it is called the constant. When people recognize this constant Dao, they understand its principle. If they do not understand the constant Dao or the proper order of things, acting recklessly will bring danger.

Understanding the constant Dao makes one tolerant. Here, “knowing” means recognizing the constant Dao, and “tolerance” means being broad-minded and accepting. Only when people throughout the world are sincerely convinced can fairness be established. If one acts in accordance with this impartial way, one can govern the world. Good governance has its root in following the Dao. By holding fast to the Dao, a ruler can begin well and finish well, without falling into peril.

This is Chapter Fifteen.

The highest ruler is one whose presence the people scarcely notice. The next best is one whom the people love and praise. The next is one whom the people fear. The worst is one whom the people scorn. When a ruler’s trustworthiness is insufficient, the people naturally do not trust him.

The noblest ruler allows the Dao to prevail throughout the world. The people do not know his achievements, yet the work is truly accomplished. Those of the middle rank, before the principles have been put into practice, hope others will praise their abilities; this is the kind of ruler whom people “love and praise.” Those of the lowest rank rely on force to subdue others and ultimately meet with resistance; this is the kind whom people “scorn.” These principles have been borne out in every age, yet some still do not believe them. Hence the saying, “When trustworthiness is insufficient, people do not trust.” This refers precisely to the situations described above.

A noble person acts with caution and says little. Once the work is done, they do not boast of their abilities, and so the work comes to a successful conclusion. If they are always showing off their skill, they may overdecorate what they do, and over time this can damage the results. As long as they neither praise themselves nor rush to condemn themselves, they can carry out their work steadily and well. In time, the people will naturally praise them. This is what is meant by “happening of itself.”

Only when the Great Dao declines do people speak of benevolence and righteousness. When cleverness and ingenuity are prized, hypocrisy grows alongside them. Only when relatives are at odds are filial children singled out for praise. Only when the state is in disorder do celebrated loyal ministers appear. If people abandon the deliberate promotion of benevolence and righteousness, they will recover filial devotion and loving-kindness. If they cease to prize sagehood and cleverness, all things will return to their natural state.

Only when the Great Dao declines does benevolence and righteousness appear; when cleverness rises, hypocrisy flourishes; only when relatives are at odds do filial children stand out; only when the state is in disorder do loyal ministers stand out. Abandon the deliberate promotion of benevolence and righteousness, and the people can recover filial devotion and loving-kindness. Cease to prize sagehood and cleverness, and the people will benefit a hundredfold. Stop pursuing craftiness and profit, and thieves will disappear. If these three teachings are treated merely as ornamental slogans, they will not be enough to guide people’s conduct. So their proper grounding must also be made clear: remain plain and true, and reduce selfishness and desire.

As for benevolence and righteousness, wisdom, great deceit, filial sons, and loyal ministers, I think Laozi’s words are remarkably insightful. Why? From the time of King Tang through the Zhou dynasty, then through the Qin and Han dynasties and down to the present, loyal ministers, filial sons, and wise people have continued to appear, yet in the end such people have been few. Laozi’s purpose in speaking this way was simply to lead people to recognize the Great Dao.

What is the Great Dao? In ancient times, under the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, and during the reigns of Yao and Shun, the Dao prevailed. Elders and younger members of each household lived in harmony, and no one among the people failed to show filial devotion. Rulers cared for all under Heaven and were even willing to yield the throne. Ministers were naturally loyal, so there was no need to rely especially on worthy ministers to govern as regents. When rulers were plain and unadorned, what use was there for ingenious contrivances?

After Yu the Great ceased yielding the throne, the Dao gradually fell into disuse. When King Tang drove out Jie of Xia and King Wu attacked Zhou of Shang, benevolence and righteousness began to stand out. When there were foolish people, wisdom became conspicuous; when there were unfilial people, filial sons were praised. Laozi urged people to cast aside the deliberate promotion of benevolence and righteousness, sage wisdom, and clever profit-seeking. In this way, he admonished later generations so that the court would no longer contend for the throne and relations between ruler and minister could be at peace.

By ordinary understanding, the idea that abandoning benevolence and righteousness, filial devotion and kindness, sage wisdom, and clever profit-seeking would bring peace to the world is something people have probably never heard before. That is why Laozi said, “These three sayings are not enough to express the meaning clearly; people are bound not to understand what they mean.” He therefore explained further, advising people to prize frugality, simplicity, and honesty, and to lessen selfishness and desire. This is what he meant by “having something to return to.”

This concludes the commentary on Chapter Sixteen. “Abandon learning and be free of worry” means that by discarding contrived doctrines and clever distinctions, one can have fewer worries.

To take all the affairs of the world into one’s mind and understand them is to set aside one-sided learning and live without worry. Wonderful! I once heard that Confucius had no fixed teacher, because the learning of people in the world could never encompass every matter in it. Even a determined scholar understands only a small part of worldly affairs. People of every sort, wise or foolish, can practice some of the many good deeds found in the world. Ordinary people cannot learn all of them, but the “Supreme One”—the highest kind of person—can take the goodness of all people as his own. That is why the text calls him “beyond the ordinary Dao, beyond the ordinary name”: his Dao and name are unlike those of ordinary people. The “Supreme One” spoken of in the scripture is not an invention of Daoism, but the highest kind of person, with no one equal to him. Confucius had no fixed teacher because he learned widely. Once his learning had become broad, he could understand the affairs of the world. Thus, “At forty, I had no doubts” means setting aside one-sided learning and having neither doubt nor worry in one’s heart.

How great is the difference between the responses “wei” and “a”? How far apart are good and evil?

People are ignorant and do not study, so the scripture uses the two responses “wei” and “a” to admonish them. How much difference is there between the two? They are merely words of reply. If, when answering, one cannot distinguish right from wrong and instead draws criticism from others, is that the conduct expected of a learner? The pairing of “good” and “evil” serves as a written expression that brings out the deeper meaning of what came before.

What people fear must be treated with caution. The turmoil of the world is vast and without end.

This is where Laozi differs from ordinary people. When people hear of something frightening, they know they should be afraid, but they are not yet thrown into complete panic. When matters reach an extreme, they fall into utter disorder, which is then hard to calm. When Laozi hears of something to be feared, he considers the worst possible outcome before events have reached their extreme. Thus, he neither falls into confusion nor lets fear govern him. The commentary “Thatched Hut” says: “‘Yang’ means the limit.”

Everyone is jubilant, as if attending a great feast or climbing a terrace in spring. I alone am calm and detached, as though nothing had yet appeared—like an infant who has not yet grown and cannot yet laugh.

This is precisely where Laozi surpassed ordinary people. His cultivation of the Dao was the same. Others pursued luxury and pleasure, but Laozi did not. Why? Because studying the Dao is not the same as indulging in pleasures brought by external things. The Dao is an intangible principle; one who uses it skillfully will never be depleted, and so can be fulfilled without becoming satiated. Outings, feasts, and amusements, by contrast, depend on external things and can easily make people arrogant and complacent. Once something reaches fullness, it turns toward decline; people are also harmed when they indulge their desires and overuse external things. Laozi therefore remained simple and held fast to the constant Dao. He was not ignorant like an infant, nor did he fail to understand what pleasure was. Rather, he held to the Dao and did not act recklessly, following the constant principles and laws of Heaven and Earth.

I seem to drift with the waves, as though I have nowhere to return. Everyone feels they have more than enough; I alone seem to lack something. My heart truly seems like that of a fool—confused and indistinct. Ordinary people are clear-sighted and discerning; I alone am muddled. Ordinary people are sharp and exacting; I alone am dull and easygoing. I drift without settling, vast as the sea, with nowhere to stop, like a rushing wind. Everyone has something to rely on; I alone am stubborn and plain. What sets me apart from everyone else is that I prize the “mother” that nurtures all things—the Dao.

Those who are deeply grounded in the Dao follow only the Dao in their conduct. The Dao is elusive and hard to grasp, yet it is not entirely without substance: amid its elusiveness there are real things; in its depths and obscurity there are images, and a subtle, genuine essence. This essence truly exists, and within it is a basis that can be trusted.

From ancient times to the present, the name and workings of the Dao have never vanished. Thus, one can observe the root of all things. How do I know what the root of all things is like? Through these insights.

The earlier phrase “riding and riding” describes drifting along as if in a boat, seeming to have nowhere to settle. It does not mean there is truly no place to return to, but that one rests in what is natural. Everyone else seems to have more than enough, while I alone seem to have lost something. Everyone else seems happy, while I alone find no joy, as though I lack delight. This does not mean there is nothing at all; it is because I hold fast to the Dao. People all seem clear-sighted and clever, while those who hold to the Dao appear dull and muddled, as if things had not yet divided from the primordial chaos. This is not ignorance, but the letting go of contrivance. The passage also says that one is like a strong wind drifting across the sea, with nowhere to stop: this means that the ways of those who hold to the Dao are unknown to ordinary people. “Stubborn and uncouth” means appearing slow-witted and coarse, not deliberately pretending to be so. In the phrase “nourished by the Mother,” “nourished” means sustained and nurtured; it refers to steadfast cultivation of the Dao, as though one were being nourished by it.

The form of great De (Virtue/Power) refers to what great De is like. If those who cultivate the Dao (the Way) can follow it and take it as their guiding standard, they can accord with the constant Great Dao. The Dao and De cannot be seen or heard; they seem to exist and yet seem not to exist. That is why they are called indistinct and elusive. The concern is that those who study the Dao may find them difficult to understand fully and, as a result, forget them.

The text says, “Within the indistinct and elusive there is something,” and also, “Within the elusive and indistinct there is an image.” This is to prevent people from treating the principles of Dao and De as empty and unreal, so it points out that they contain an “image”—a perceptible form. It also says that within their deep obscurity there is an essence; “essence” means the inner excellence. If one can hold to this principle without changing it, one will trust that it is as constant as Heaven and Earth. Its essence is profound, and it truly has grounds for trust. What are those grounds? From ancient times to the present, the Dao has never diminished. That is why its name does not disappear—in other words, it does not decay.

“To observe the beginnings of all things” means to observe the myriad things. The Dao endures without pause, and the myriad things flourish; here, “beginnings” refers to what is beautiful. Why can we observe the myriad things growing in this way? Because the Dao is faithful and unfailing: it moves with the four seasons and continually gives life to all things. So teaching people to hold to the Dao and act with sincerity comes as naturally as a shadow following the body or an echo answering at once.

This is Chapter Eighteen.

Bending preserves; being pressed down allows one to straighten. A hollow fills; what is worn out is renewed. Taking little brings gain; taking too much leads to confusion.

This teaches people not to go to extremes in how they conduct themselves and handle affairs. Cultivating the Dao and practicing sincerity are meant to help distinguish truth from falsehood. “Bending,” “being pressed down,” “hollow,” “worn out,” and “taking little” all illustrate that one should not seek too much. Taking too much leads to confusion. Even if learners read widely, what good is it if they cannot distinguish truth from falsehood? Failing to tell them apart may bring misfortune and undermine good conduct. “Wei” and “e” are both words of assent; how far apart can they be? For this reason, the sage holds to the “One Dao”—the unified, fundamental Dao—and makes it the standard for all under Heaven.

Choose what is good, discard what is bad, and make this the principle for action. Bring good deeds into harmony and let evil deeds gradually fade away; then you can become a model for all under Heaven. Would this not dispel many confusions? In this way, one can set out on an extraordinary path.

Those who do not seek to display themselves are clear-sighted. Those who do not insist that they are right—how many can manage this?

Therefore, the sage holds fast to the Dao, the fundamental principle of all things, and takes it as a model for all under Heaven.

Those who do not seek to display themselves are clear-sighted; those who do not insist that they are right are brought to prominence; those who do not praise themselves establish merit; those who do not exalt themselves endure. Precisely because they do not contend with others, no one under Heaven can contend with them. When the ancients said, “Bend, and you will remain whole,” were they speaking empty words? Indeed, by remaining whole, one can win everyone’s allegiance.

The four instances of “self” discussed here merely illustrate the principle expressed earlier through the six words “bent, crooked, hollow, worn, little, much.” Once the earlier meaning is clear, the later points can be understood by extension. Even if each of them were explained in detail, it would amount to no more than a broad gloss on the words.

This concludes Chapter Nineteen.

Speak little and let things follow their natural course. A gale cannot last through the morning; a downpour cannot last through the day. What makes them so? Heaven and Earth. If even the gale and downpour brought about by Heaven and Earth cannot last long, how much less can human actions endure?

This passage describes how petty people imitate those who follow the Dao while still hoping, as soon as they put a policy into effect, to be praised by others. That is why it is called “sparse words”: “sparse words” means hoping others will speak well of you. The passage then invokes “spontaneity” to warn people against treating conduct that accords with the constant Way as a means of pursuing fame and rank. Dong Zhongshu said, “Uphold righteousness without seeking private gain; clarify the right Way without counting your merits.” This is what it means to follow things as they are. When righteousness is upheld and the principles are clear, fitting results will come in time of their own accord. The reference to “spontaneity” also serves as a warning: not everyone is capable of following the Way.

“A gale cannot last all morning; a torrential rain cannot last all day.” This uses natural phenomena as a metaphor. Who brings about gales and torrential rain? Heaven and Earth. Someone might ask whether the winds and rains of Heaven and Earth cannot continue for a whole morning or a whole day. That question itself shows a failure to understand the point. Heaven and Earth cannot make gales and torrential rain last indefinitely; how much less can people do so? Here, words and actions driven by the hope of praise are compared to sudden winds and downpours: they may arise for a while, but cannot last. That is the point of the preceding passage.

Thus, those who devote themselves to the Dao accord with the Dao; those who act in accordance with De accord with De; and those who persist in losing the Dao accord with that loss. When people devote themselves wholeheartedly to the Dao, they make the Way their sole concern. Cultivating great De, too, cannot be separated from the foundation of conduct that accords with the constant Way. Those who resolve to practice De will in time possess De. Those who harbor crooked intentions and act deceitfully will, as a result, lose their integrity and ruin their De. The passage that follows explains this principle further through three statements of “sameness”: the path people choose in the world brings consequences that correspond to it. Cherish one thing, and that is what will come to pass; pursue another, and that is the response you will receive.

Those who accord with the Dao are received by the Dao; those who accord with De are answered by De; those who accord with the loss of the Dao will likewise meet the consequences of that loss. When people lack sincerity themselves, others will naturally not trust them.

Whichever side one favors, one will receive what that side offers. Even so, some people remain doubtful and hesitant, while others do not believe at all. This shows a lack of conviction: doubts still linger in the heart. The lines that follow—“Stand on tiptoe and you cannot keep your balance; take a great stride and you cannot go far”—repeat the same point.

Stand on tiptoe and you cannot keep your balance; take a great stride and you cannot go far. Those who put themselves on display cannot see things clearly; those who insist they are right cannot make their virtue shine; those who boast of their achievements have no merit; those who exalt themselves cannot endure. Measured by the standards of the Dao, such conduct is like leftover food and cumbersome behavior, which people often find distasteful. Therefore, a person who follows the Dao does not act this way.

Standing on tiptoe and taking a great stride both serve as images of forcing one’s way forward. Someone standing on tiptoe cannot keep a firm footing. “Stride” means to leap or step out, like a rider who has not yet settled securely in the saddle. Such actions make it hard to stand steady or travel far because they are ill suited to the task. The four expressions “showing oneself,” “insisting on one’s own views,” “boasting,” and “exalting oneself” are not difficult to understand: they simply warn against making a show of oneself. What I do is only follow things as they naturally unfold. “Leftover food and cumbersome behavior” also suggests boastfulness and self-importance. When someone boasts, others naturally laugh at them, so the exemplary person does not behave this way.

The passage on the right is Chapter Twenty.

There is something whole and undivided that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape. It is still and empty, stands alone, and never changes. It moves in cycles without exhaustion and can serve as the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its original name, so I call it the Dao. If forced to give it another name, I call it “Great.”

Here, the boundless Qi and principle that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape are compared to the state of a noble person’s benevolent virtue before it is put into practice. It can become the source of all things under Heaven. I do not know its original name, so I call it the Dao; if forced to name it further, I call it “Great.”

From the Qi of Non-Being that existed before Heaven and Earth took shape, the Dao is like the benevolence held within a noble person’s heart before it is put into practice. Benevolence rests in the heart in an orderly way: still and profound, standing on its own without change. It is settled and does not move recklessly; its workings extend everywhere without exhaustion. Thus it can serve as the foundation of all things under Heaven.

“Without exhaustion” here means examining oneself and understanding the Dao at all times, never allowing it to be lost. If the Dao is never lost, how could it fail to benefit all things? To benefit all things through the Dao—is this not just like being their foundation? Though we force ourselves to call it “Dao,” it is in truth the Dao of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), and so it is called “great.”

The great moves onward; moving onward, it reaches far; reaching far, it returns to its source.

The “great” moves onward because the Dao brings all things to completion and sustains them. All things receive nourishment from the Dao and, in the end, return to it. Is this not a return? “Far” refers to the Dao flowing through all things.

Thus the Dao is great, Heaven is great, Earth is great, and the king is also great. Between Heaven and Earth there are four kinds of greatness, and the king is one of them.

Heaven and Earth together bring all things to completion. The king takes Heaven and Earth as models, holds to this Dao, and stands between them. Compared with Heaven and Earth, is the king merely an insignificant person? Why can the king be counted among the four greats? Because the principle is vast and mysterious, and the king holds to it; therefore the king, too, is called great.

Humanity models itself on Earth; Earth models itself on Heaven; Heaven models itself on the Dao; the Dao models itself on what is natural.

These four instances of “modeling” explain how the four greats follow one another and together uphold the Great Dao. Humanity modeling itself on Earth means that a ruler governing the realm should observe the patterns of Earth’s seasons and the interaction of Yin-Yang, and take them as the constant principle of government. Earth modeling itself on Heaven means that Earth responds to wind, rain, frost, and dew, allowing all things to grow, bear fruit, and be harvested. Heaven modeling itself on the Dao means that Heaven and Earth arise naturally and gradually from the Qi of Non-Being. The Dao modeling itself on what is natural means that harmonious Qi flows, allowing all things to remain unharmed. This is what happens of itself.

The above is Chapter Twenty-One.

Heaviness is the foundation of lightness; stillness is the master of agitation.

A noble person, in conducting themselves in the world, should first preserve their own person and then weigh what they intend to do. They should undertake only those actions that both preserve them and bring them an honorable name. Thus the earlier passage on “heaviness, stillness, lightness, and agitation” warns against acting rashly, but also against hesitating indecisively.

A noble person may travel all day without leaving the baggage train—the carts that carry provisions and other supplies on a military campaign. Here, the baggage train serves as a metaphor for the human body. Traveling all day means that the mind consistently follows the Dao; not leaving the baggage train means not abandoning the body. The human mind is where the spirit and soul reside. If they indulge in unfounded thoughts and reckless actions, fail to guard the inner self, and give free rein to desire, it is like leaving the baggage train behind. Imagine a commander leading an army on a long march into enemy territory: would they abandon the army’s provisions and go on ahead? If they did, the supplies would be lost. A noble person should preserve their person in the same way.

Even when surrounded by beautiful and striking things, a noble person can remain at ease and keep their distance. “Splendid sights” refers to fine things worth seeing. For example, someone might say that rare and precious curiosities can be found elsewhere and invite the noble person to go and see them. The noble person instead guards what is precious within, keeps the mind still, and is not stirred by external things. This is what it means to “dwell in ease, transcending the world.”

Why would the ruler of ten thousand chariots—the Son of Heaven—treat himself so lightly that he also makes light of the realm? Lightness leads to the loss of one’s foundation; agitation leads to the loss of one’s throne. The commentary cites King Mu of Zhou, who traveled on an outing with his eight steeds, as an example of a ruler who treated himself lightly by going on the road. It also cites King Zhou of Shang, who had the shins of people crossing a stream at dawn cut open and a worthy man’s heart torn out. Zhou was not merely agitated; he was cruel and without benevolence. As a result, he lost his throne and, in the end, his life.

Those skilled in acting leave no visible trace. Those skilled in speaking have no flaws or errors in their words. Those skilled in planning need no counters or calculating devices. Those skilled at closing need no bolt to make a door impossible to open. Those skilled at binding need no rope to make a knot impossible to undo.

The way a gentleman conducts himself may not be apparent to ordinary people, because he does not show off or boast of himself. Since he does not boast, he does not speak recklessly; and since he does not speak recklessly, his words have no faults. He always uses reason to restrain his mind. If petty people try to spy on or bully him, how could they avoid being constrained by him when their actions do not accord with reason? Does this depend on calculations and schemes? I possess the realm, and its defenses are secured at the frontiers in all four directions. The people are settled and goods are plentiful; ruler and ministers are of one mind, and soldiers and civilians each live their lives with shared purpose. Even without bolts or ropes, who could open or undo what binds them? The “skilled closing” and “skilled binding” are simply metaphors: the sage nurtures the people of the realm through the Dao, so that they naturally become the force that guards and sustains the state. Why would they undo it?

Therefore, the sage is always skilled at helping people and abandons no one; always skilled at helping all things and discards nothing. This is called “inheriting brightness” (xi ming): receiving and continuing the luminous Dao.

In the sage’s mind, people and things are not rigidly divided into good and not good. The “good” spoken of here means that the Dao constantly treats people and all things well in accordance with its enduring way. Those people and things that do not accord with reason reveal their own lack of goodness; yet the sage has never intended to abandon them. To abandon no one and always offer help is precisely the enduring Dao. To follow this way is to be one whom the Dao does not abandon. “Inheriting brightness” means that the sage thereby receives and continues the luminous Dao, carrying it through past and present.

Therefore, a good person can be a teacher to someone who is not good, while someone who is not good can also serve as a lesson for a good person.

One who is skilled at guiding others does not deliberately set out to be their teacher, yet can still lead them toward goodness. Wherever a noble person goes, their mind is deep and calm, their body at ease, and their bearing broad. Those around them are naturally influenced and learn from them. Thus, even someone who is not good can become a teacher to others and help them become good. This is how one teaches without leaving traces of deliberate instruction. Do you understand what it means to learn from another?

If you do not respect your teacher or value what you learn from others, then even if you think you understand, you are deeply confused. This is a subtle and profound principle.

To teach others without setting out to do so, yet have them learn from my example, is called failing to respect the teacher. To give nothing to others, yet have them grasp the principle from me, is called failing to value what one learns from others. Such a person may seem to do nothing, yet holds the key to the natural workings of things. This is the subtle and profound mystery.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Three.

For others to grasp the principle from me is called failing to value what one learns from others. Such a person may seem to do nothing, yet holds the key to the natural workings of things. This is the subtle and profound mystery.

Know the bright, yet hold to the dark, and you can become a model for all under Heaven. As a model for all under Heaven, your constant De (Virtue/Power) will not go astray, and you will ultimately return to the limitless—the undifferentiated origin without boundaries.

Brightness represents what is revealed. When things reach their height, they are bound to decline, so one should first hold to the dark. The dark is the sign that brightness is about to appear. Thus, preserve the bright without letting it become fully exposed. If a noble person can do this, they can become a model. Those who uphold this Way keep their De constant and their minds free from deviation. Going further, they cast off private desires and unite their spirit, keeping it within, like the Qi and principle of the world before Heaven and Earth took shape. This is the limitless.

Know the strong, yet hold to the weak, and you can become the valley of all under Heaven. As the valley of all under Heaven, your constant De will not be lost, and you will ultimately return to the pure, natural state of an infant.

This passage teaches people not to esteem strength, but to esteem gentleness, using the male and female as metaphors. A person’s heart should be like the great rivers, able to receive the surging waters of a hundred streams. If a noble person can hold this in mind, they will always possess deep De. Even with deep De, they do not boast, but appear as plain and unknowing as an infant. This does not mean truly knowing nothing; it means the heart does not stir recklessly or act arbitrarily. An infant, unable to act recklessly, serves as a metaphor for this state.

Understand glory, yet remain content with disgrace, and you can become the deep valley of the world. When the heart is like a deep valley, enduring De will be abundant, and one can then return to simplicity.

Though already wealthy, if you fear suffering disgrace and therefore remain cautious and self-contained, you can avoid humiliation. Such a person can become the deep valley of the world. “Valley” refers to a low, spacious place deep within a great mountain; it is a metaphor for a broad heart that can accommodate things. If one can be this way, one possesses enduring De. Even with deep De, one does not boast, and the heart remains simple.

When the uncarved simplicity of the Dao is dispersed, it appears as the many things. The sage puts it to use and can thereby become the leader of the people. Thus, good governance does not divide the whole.

“Uncarved simplicity” is the state of the Dao before it appears or is put into practice; its dispersal into the many things is the unfolding of the Dao. The sage puts the Dao to use and becomes the leader of the people; here, “official” refers to the ruler. Though the Dao is dispersed and moves among the myriad things, they remain inwardly connected, and when gathered together, they return to an undivided whole. Therefore, it has not truly been divided.

“I do not think it is possible to seize the world and rule it by force. The world is a sacred vessel; it cannot be treated arbitrarily. Those who force their way will fail, and those who insist on holding on will lose it.”

These are Laozi’s words of lament. When I read this passage in the Jing, I came to understand the Great Dao of which Laozi speaks. Laozi says: “I wanted to seize the world and take action, yet I refrained. Why?” Because the world and the state are both sacred vessels. To call them sacred vessels means that Heaven and Earth hold sway over the world, while the state can only receive and govern it. For this reason, one must not seize it rashly. Laozi says: “I have seen those who plotted to seize another’s state, and none of them escaped failure. Even those already in power may still fail. This is the working of Heaven’s mandate. If I were to act, how could I defy Heaven and Earth?” Only when Heaven’s mandate has come to oneself, and there is truly no other choice, may one act.

Among all things, some move ahead and some follow behind; some breathe out gently and some blow forcefully; some are strong and some are weak; some bear loads and some collapse. Therefore, the sage sets aside extremes, extravagance, and excess.

“Moving ahead” and “following behind” mean that some walk in front while others come after them. Those who walk in front refuse to yield, while those who follow behind are able to be modest. The same is true of “breathing out gently” and “blowing forcefully”: forceful blowing exhausts one’s strength, while a gentle breath leaves strength in reserve. “Strong” and “weak” stand in opposition: what is flourishing will eventually decline, while what is weak may also grow strong. The same is true of “bearing loads” and “collapsing”: what bears a load may later be unable to do so, while what has collapsed may rise again. These words warn people not to defy Heaven’s mandate or presume to force things. This is what the sage’s setting aside extremes, extravagance, and excess means.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Five.

Those who use the Dao to assist a ruler do not assert their strength over the world through military force, because doing so readily brings retribution.

I believe that no one from antiquity to the present can compare with Laozi as a sage. Why? Because he had accumulated profound De in secret.

If a minister does not assist the ruler through moral principle but instead constantly promotes the use of force, he will bring harm to the ruler. If, when it is truly necessary to send out troops, the minister hesitates and the ruler consequently refuses to act, that too will bring harm to the ruler. Why? Again, because De has been accumulated deeply in secret.

The Jing says, “Events often bring corresponding retribution.” This means that the spirits will not permit actions that violate reason. If someone harms a life without cause, retribution will fall upon that person or their descendants. This is inevitable.

Where armies have been stationed, thorns and brambles often grow thick. After a great war, there will surely be years of famine.

This also serves to explain the principles governing rulers and ministers. Why do years of famine follow? When a state sends troops to war, it may have to transport food and supplies to the borders. The people are then exhausted, and the state’s resources are depleted, leading to famine. Or conflict may break out within the country, disrupting farming and leaving fields uncultivated; thus thorns and brambles grow thick. The country’s supplies are consequently diminished. This is what is meant by years of famine.

Those skilled in using troops seek only to accomplish their purpose; they do not dare use force to show off their strength. Having won, they do not boast, flaunt their military achievements, or grow arrogant. They take action only when there is no other choice. This is called winning without forceful display.

This passage further explains the matter of famine and also clarifies the way between ruler and minister. When an urgent situation arises and something truly must be done, it should be handled in time. Once the task is complete and victory achieved, do not make a show of it or boast. This is what “not boasting” means. “Not using force to show off one’s strength” means not becoming even more devoted to military power. “Not flaunting military achievements” and “not growing arrogant” both mean not exaggerating or displaying one’s accomplishments. “Taking action only when there is no other choice” means acting only when there is truly no alternative. This is what “winning without forceful display” means: when an action is taken out of necessity, how could it be a show of strength?

When things reach the height of their strength, they begin to decline. This is called being contrary to the Dao. What is contrary to the Dao quickly comes to an end.

This again uses warfare as a metaphor to explain that using force excessively is called “aging.” “Already” means having grown old; once old, one cannot endure for long. The general point is that one must not keep flexing military strength without cause.

To delight in using force is inauspicious. All things may well abhor it, so a person who follows the Dao does not act this way.

This refers to those who return victorious from battle and often boast of their skill in warfare. The moment they claim to be skilled in warfare, they have already revealed something inauspicious. Saying that all things abhor it means that wherever an army passes, it takes human lives and damages all kinds of things. What is damaged? Money and provisions, weapons and armor, banners and ceremonial equipment, houses, ferry crossings, boats, carts, and horses—nothing escapes loss. Thus all things may well abhor war. For this reason, the best course is to weigh matters carefully and avoid using force.

In ordinary life, the gentleman regards the left as honorable; in warfare, he regards the right as honorable.

This means that military affairs are inauspicious. The left represents the energy of life, so the gentleman honors the left in ordinary life. The best course is to weigh matters carefully and avoid using force.

In ordinary life, the gentleman regards the left as honorable; in warfare, he regards the right as honorable.

The left represents the energy of life, so the gentleman honors the left in ordinary life. The right belongs to Metal, and Metal governs killing and warfare, so the right is honored in military affairs.

Weapons are inauspicious objects, not instruments for a gentleman to use. He uses them only when there is no alternative. In warfare, calm detachment is best; even in victory, one should not feel delight.

Weapons are instruments of ill fortune, used only when there is no alternative. A gentleman therefore does not resort to force lightly; even a great victory is treated as an ordinary matter. This ordinary state of mind is calm detachment. In other words, victory is nothing to boast about.

To treat victory as something worth boasting about is to take pleasure in killing. Someone who takes pleasure in killing cannot achieve their aims in the world.

If someone boasts of being skilled in warfare, it shows that they delight in killing. Such a person is unfit to serve as an example to the world.

In auspicious ceremonies, the left is honored; in funerals, the right is honored. The deputy general stands on the left, and the commander stands on the right. When many people have been killed, one should grieve and weep; even victory in battle should be presided over with the rites of mourning.

The ancients regarded human life with such care and far-reaching concern! This reflects their unwillingness to treat an inauspicious affair as auspicious, and their regard for life.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Six.

The Dao was originally nameless. The uncarved block, plain and untouched—the Dao in its original state—may seem small, yet it can govern ritual order.

The ancients treated human life with care and caution; how far-reaching their intentions were! They did not want dangerous things to be mistaken for auspicious ones, and they valued human life.

The passage on the right is Chapter Twenty-Six.

The Dao was originally nameless. The uncarved block may appear small, yet in all under heaven no one would dare treat it as a subordinate. If lords and kings can keep hold of it, all things will naturally submit.

The Dao has no fixed name. Here, it refers to a kind and generous heart and profound virtue. The uncarved block is plain and subtle, seemingly insignificant, but who would dare despise it? The uncarved block is the truth of the Dao; to say that no one “dares treat it as a subordinate” means that no one dares to despise it. If lords and kings can uphold this truth, all things will naturally submit, coming to pay homage and tribute. If the feudal lords can uphold the Dao, they can share a name with Heaven and Earth and may be called wise. But it is probably inappropriate to speak of “lords” and “kings” side by side.

When the Qi of Heaven and Earth joins, sweet dew descends. No one commands it, yet it falls evenly of its own accord.

This describes how wondrous the Dao’s workings and principles are. When sweet dew descends, no one issues an order, and no one knows who makes it fall evenly. This is the natural effect of harmonious Qi.

When all things first come to be arranged and transformed, they acquire names.

The workings of transformation through De are so far-reaching that sweet dew becomes one of its names. Earlier, the text spoke of the nameless and the named: before the principles are put into practice, they have no name; once their workings appear in things, those things provide the name. This is what is meant by “having a name.”

Once names have arisen, one should know when to stop. Knowing when to stop makes it possible to avoid danger.

Names arise from things, so one should know when to stop. Why? This means that after a junzi has completed something, they should not deliberately add embellishments. Seeking further cleverness may instead cause the work to fail again. To stop before overworking it is to know when enough is enough. Knowing contentment makes it possible to avoid danger.

The Dao in the world is like the relationship between streams and valleys and the rivers and seas.

The Dao abides within the heart of the noble person. As long as it is held to and never forgotten, it is like the unending source of a great river. Clouds and rain form in the world, and the waters of countless streams rise and overflow; their source is the sea. How do we know this? The sea is where Yin energy gathers. As Yin energy rises, it forms clouds and rain. The Dao operates in the same way: once in motion, it fills the rivers, whose waters then flow back to the sea. This is the Dao’s substance and its function.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Seven.

To understand others is wisdom; to know oneself is true clarity. To overcome others is strength; to overcome oneself is true power.

One who understands others may be called wise. To see one’s own circumstances clearly is a way of acting well. One who is skilled at overcoming others may be called strong, even without having to exert much effort. But only one who can overcome oneself deserves to be called powerful. If you can do these things, you should also know contentment.

Those who know contentment are rich; those who strive without cease have resolve.

To possess what is one’s own, keep to one’s proper bounds, and refrain from coveting more; to cherish and hold firmly to what one already has—this is what it means to be rich. Striving without cease means that the noble person reflects on and puts the Dao into practice throughout the day, never stopping. With such resolve, the task can ultimately be accomplished.

One who does not lose their root can endure; one whose spirit does not perish with the body has longevity.

Not losing one’s root means consistently holding to and putting into practice the principles described above. One’s reputation can then endure through the ages without fading: this is what it means for the body to die yet not perish. What is longevity? Who can say? Buddhism speaks of “neither arising nor perishing”; this refers to such a state. Yet perhaps the ignorant and deluded still cannot understand, so it is made clear here: this refers to the principle of emptiness. Only by truly practicing the Great Dao can one reach this state.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Eight.

The Great Dao flows broadly and everywhere; it can operate wherever it goes.

This means that the Great Dao is vast and boundless, its principle profound and unfathomable. How could it be confined by directions such as left and right?

All things rely on the Great Dao to come into being, yet the Dao does not refuse them. When things are accomplished, the Dao takes no credit.

The Dao bestows itself upon the world, and all things depend on it to grow. Once they have grown, the Dao says nothing. This means that when a noble person follows the Dao, the most important thing is not to boast. By not boasting, one does not claim credit either. To refrain from claiming credit means that, once a task is complete, one does not attribute the growth of all things or one’s accomplishments to oneself or to one’s own abilities.

The Dao nourishes all things but does not rule over them. It is often free of desire, and so can be called small.

The Dao is like a thick layer of cotton, covering and nurturing all things. If we were to name the Dao, its nature would not wish to be named. That is why it is called “small” here.

All things return to it, yet do not know that it is their ruler; therefore, it can be called great.

When the Great Dao is put into practice, all things find their proper place. It does not claim to have special powers, yet all things naturally return to it; therefore, it can be called great.

Thus, the sage can accomplish great things precisely because he does not consider himself great. This is how he achieves greatness.

The sage is skilled at benefiting and rescuing all things, and such a person may be called great. He does not boast of his achievements, and so can accomplish greatness. He does not regard himself as great, and so achieves greatness. This is what it means to accomplish things naturally, without deliberately striving for success.

The above is Chapter Twenty-Nine.

If one grasps the “Great Image”—the overall principles of the Great Dao—people throughout the world will return to it. Once they have returned, there will be no calamity; the world will be settled, harmonious, and at peace.

“To hold fast to the Great Image” means to grasp the fundamental principles of the Great Dao. It can also refer to a ruler occupying the honored position and administering affairs of state. The ruler’s position is a treasured one, valued by the people. As long as the ruler upholds the constant Dao and does not act recklessly, people throughout the world will follow. After they have gathered, the ruler can comfort them with kindness, and the world will become settled, harmonious, and peaceful.

Music and fine food can make passersby stop in their tracks. But when the Dao is spoken of, it seems bland and tasteless. Look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard. Yet in use, it is never exhausted.

If a ruler cares well for the people, even those who turn away for a time will return to follow him. Remove the unnecessary words, and what remains is still bland and tasteless: invisible, inaudible, yet inexhaustible in use.

The Dao has neither form nor shadow. Words alone cannot explain it in a way that lets people verify it for themselves, and it has no taste to savor. Look for it, and it cannot be seen; listen for it, and it cannot be heard. The ignorant therefore think it does not exist. Yet those who truly know how to use the Dao have never lacked it since ancient times. This is why the Dao is inexhaustible.

If a ruler cares well for the people, even those who turn away will return to follow him. Remove the unnecessary words, and what remains is still bland and tasteless: invisible, inaudible, yet inexhaustible in use.

The Dao is this formless, shadowless presence, beyond the grasp of words and the senses. The ignorant think it does not exist, but those who know how to use it can draw on it continually. Thus it is never exhausted.

This is Chapter Thirty.

To draw something in, one often first lets it expand. To weaken something, one often first lets it grow strong. To discard something, one often first lets it rise. To take something, one often first gives it. This principle is called “subtle illumination”—clear insight that emerges from the smallest things. The soft overcomes the hard; the weak overcomes the strong. Fish cannot leave the deep pool, and a state’s sharp instruments—that is, its important powers and strategies—must not be displayed lightly.

To remain gentle and concealed, keeping one’s plans deeply hidden: only the wise can understand this principle.

This is Chapter Thirty-One.

The Dao constantly follows its own nature and does not force action, yet nothing is left undone.

In governing the world, a ruler should devote himself to holding fast to the Dao. When it is held in the heart, action issues from the heart. The Dao is formless and shadowless, yet it endures always. This is Wuwei (non-action), through which nothing remains undone.

If lords and kings can hold fast to the Dao, all things will transform naturally.

If generosity and virtue are practiced steadily without change, then, in time, the whole world will follow. To “hold to the constant and act accordingly” means to act this way throughout. “Transform naturally” means that the people will follow of their own accord.

When desires and restless actions arise amid the transformation of all things, I use the “nameless uncarved simplicity”—a pure, unshaped state untouched by human distinctions—to bring them to rest. Returning to this simplicity, one will have no excessive desires.

When a ruler governs by the kingly Way—governing in accord with the right path—the people will follow, and the nation’s character will grow more wholesome. Over time, as the people become prosperous, they may grow extravagant, so the ruler must restrain them. To restrain them means that the ruler first practices frugality himself, setting an example above for those below to follow and preventing indulgence in pleasure.

When the ruler is free of greed and keeps his mind calm, the world will naturally move toward what is right.

When the ruler puts these practices into effect himself, others need not wait to be taught; they too will change of their own accord. This is inevitable.

The above is Chapter Thirty-Two.

End of Volume One of the Imperial Commentary on the Dao De Jing by the Hongwu Emperor of the Great Ming.

The Imperial Commentary on the Dao De Jing by the Hongwu Emperor of the Great Ming, Volume Two

A person of the highest De (Virtue/Power) does not make a show of possessing De, and so truly has it. A person of lesser De clings to the idea of not losing De, and so does not truly have it. One of the highest De follows things as they are, acting through Wuwei (non-action) and without deliberate purpose. One of lesser De takes deliberate action and has a purpose in doing so. One of the highest Ren (benevolence) practices benevolence through action, but without deliberate purpose. One of the highest Yi (righteousness) upholds what is right through action, with a clear purpose. One of the highest Li (ritual propriety) practices ritual through action; if no one responds, they roll up their sleeves and impose it by force.

Thus, only after the Dao has been lost do people speak of De; only after De has been lost do they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence has been lost do they speak of righteousness; and only after righteousness has been lost do they speak of ritual. Ritual arises when loyalty and trust have grown thin, and it is the beginning of disorder. The cleverness of those who claim foresight is merely the outward show of the Dao, and the beginning of folly. Therefore, the great person stands by what is substantial and does not dwell on what is shallow; values what is real and does not pursue what is showy. So they set aside the latter and choose the former.

Great De benefits all things widely but does not boast of itself. It lets all things follow their own nature, and for this reason it is truly De. One should stand by what is substantial and not dwell on what is shallow; value what is real and not pursue what is showy. So one should set aside showiness and choose what is real.

The highest virtue benefits all things widely without boasting of itself. It follows the natural state of all things, and so it can truly be called virtuous. This is what is meant by “having virtue.” A lesser kind of virtue keeps virtue constantly in mind and strives to preserve its own virtuousness; for that very reason, it is not true virtue. This is what is meant by “lacking virtue.” In other words, people of shallow virtue and narrow capacity parade their abilities and, as a result, lose virtue.

The highest virtue follows what is natural. It acts without deliberate effort and has no aim behind its actions. Once things have been set in order, there is nothing further to put into practice, and it does not prize cleverness. This is called “acting without purpose.” Lesser virtue takes action with a definite aim because it prizes cleverness. This is called “acting with purpose,” and in the end it damages virtue.

The highest benevolence, the highest righteousness, the highest ritual, the various failings that arise when they fall into disorder, and the question of whether to value inner sincerity or outward show are all phenomena Laozi uses to describe the world’s decline from flourishing to decay. These distinctions appear only when the Great Dao is no longer followed.

What is the Great Dao? It prevailed in ancient times under the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors. For example, Yao passed the throne to Shun, and Shun passed it to Yu. The system of offices did not change frequently, ritual and music each had their proper order, rulers were wise, ministers capable, and all under Heaven was peaceful and harmonious. This was an age when the Great Dao flourished.

What does decline mean? Jie of the Xia and Zhou of the Shang were unfit to rule. They cared only about using all under Heaven for their own pleasure. Government gradually fell into neglect, wicked deeds multiplied, proper music faded, and licentious music arose. This shows that the Great Dao and virtue had declined, and benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music had fallen into disrepair as well. Under the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, all under Heaven was simple and unspoiled; these conspicuous labels did not stand out. That is why their age can be called one in which the Great Dao flourished.

Jie and Zhou ruined the Great Dao, and only then did Tang of Shang drive out Jie and King Wu of Zhou attack Zhou. Were these acts the actions of subjects, or were they just and proper? Jie and Zhou had lost the virtue of Yao and Shun, and so came to this end. Was this an age of flourishing or an age of decline? We can see from these changes how the world’s flourishing and decline became apparent, and how benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness began to be singled out and emphasized. How could such an age not be called one of decline?

What is described here is not the goodness and beauty of the world, but rather a sign that goodness and beauty have disappeared. That is why the text earlier in this Jing says, “cast off benevolence and abandon righteousness”: its purpose is simply to prevent this state of affairs from arising. What Laozi hoped for was the natural benevolence and righteousness of the age of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, not the rejection of benevolence and righteousness themselves. Can this really be Laozi’s fault?

The above is Chapter 33.

The things that have received “the One”—the primordial Qi (vital energy) and principle of the Dao—since ancient times are these: when Heaven receives it, Heaven becomes clear; when Earth receives it, Earth becomes tranquil; when spirits receive it, they become efficacious; when valleys receive it, they become full; when the myriad things receive it, they grow; and when rulers receive it, they can serve as the proper standard for all under Heaven. This is because each has received the same root.

To “receive the One” means to receive the primordial Qi that existed at the beginning of the Limitless. What this Qi embodies is the principle of the Great Dao. Heaven and Earth took shape from this Qi, so receiving it makes them clear and tranquil. Spirits govern Heaven and Earth and are formed by the gathering of the most refined Qi. As the Qi of spirits changes, they may be formless at times and take visible form at others; hence the saying that they receive the One and become efficacious. Valleys symbolize the human world between Heaven and Earth. The space between them is empty, forming valleys; harmonious Qi fills that space, allowing the myriad things to flourish. Hence the saying that valleys receive the One and become full. Each of the myriad things receives the Qi suited to its own nature. When the most refined Qi begins to stir into life, it has received the One and is born. Rulers and their ministers follow the essence of Heaven and Earth and refrain from reckless action, allowing the Great Dao to be put into practice. In this way, all under Heaven is set aright. This passage teaches people to hold fast to the Great Dao and refrain from reckless action. Whether rulers and ministers, scholars, or common people, all should allow the Dao to prevail.

If Heaven loses its clarity, it may collapse; if Earth loses its tranquility, it may quake and cave in; if spirits lose their efficacy, they may fade away; if valleys cannot remain full, they may dry up; if the myriad things lose their vitality, they may perish; and if rulers cannot uphold what is proper but rely on their noble rank and high position, they may fall and be overthrown.

If Heaven loses this Qi and principle, it may split apart; if Earth loses it, it may quake and sink; if spirits lose it, they will lose their efficacy; if valleys lose it, the human world will fall into want; and if the myriad things lose it, they will be unable to grow and will move toward extinction. If rulers and their ministers lose it, they will lose the Dao and their states will perish. If scholars and gentlemen lose it, they too will see their honored positions overturned.

Thus, what is honored takes the lowly as its root, and what is high takes the low as its foundation. For this reason, lords and kings call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy.” These are humble titles that acknowledge their low status and insufficient De (Virtue). In doing so, are they not taking the lowly as their root? The highest praise, then, is to go without praise. There is no need to seek the dazzling brilliance of fine jade, or the conspicuous hardness of stone.

A person of benevolence and De should remain humble, taking this to be the auspicious Way. That is why kings call themselves “orphan,” “widower,” or “unworthy.” These three words describe one who is insignificant and lacking in De; by using them of themselves, kings say they do not regard themselves as superior. Is it fitting for ordinary people to boast? As the saying goes: “Those who point out my faults are my teachers; those who praise me may instead be harming me.” The highest praise is to go without praise. There is no need to seek the honor of fine jade or the prominence of stone. Both expressions are forms of flattery. A person of De should hold fast to the Dao and not be changed by praise. Why care what others praise? To delight in praise without restraint leads one astray.

Reversal is the way the Dao moves; weakness is the way the Dao acts. All things under Heaven arise from being, and being arises from nonbeing.

Those of the highest understanding hear of the Dao and diligently put it into practice. Those of middling understanding hear of it and seem to remember it, yet seem to forget it. Those of the lowest understanding hear of it and laugh aloud. If it were not laughed at, it would not be worthy of being called the Dao. Thus, the words of those who spoke in ancient times include these: The bright Dao seems dim; the forward-moving Dao seems to retreat; the level Dao seems uneven. The highest De is humble as a valley; what is purest white seems stained; abundant De seems insufficient; vigorous De seems slack; what is genuine and unadorned seems altered. The greatest square has no corners; the greatest vessel is completed last; the greatest sound is barely heard; the greatest image has no form.

The Dao works through all things, and each thing thereby fulfills its function. When all things are fulfilled, the Dao returns to me.

“Reversal” is how the Dao moves. When things reach a certain stage in their development, they return to their source; after returning, they begin to change anew. Rulers and ministers, and exemplary people who establish themselves by upholding the Dao, never forget it for a moment. The Dao’s power is what enables them to achieve things. Everything in the world that is born must also perish. This is the natural order and the governing principle of Heaven and Earth. The saying “Being arises from nonbeing” expresses this principle.

For this reason, the sages of antiquity practiced the Dao throughout their lives, keeping to it day and night without daring to slacken. People of middling ability follow it at times and fail to follow it at others. When they hear others praise the Dao, they take it up again; but sometimes they refuse to practice it because they find it hidden and hard to understand, or because its results come slowly. Thus they are said to be half-convinced and half-doubtful. People of lesser ability not only fail to follow the Dao, but laugh when they hear it discussed. Some, not having understood it, make no reply. Others say the Dao cannot be practiced. When exemplary people discuss the Dao with petty people, the latter are like travelers who have lost their way and cannot easily be guided to follow it. Even if one takes a step back and speaks to them in plain terms, it is still like a shuttle caught among the warp threads, unable to pass through smoothly.

The scripture’s terms “valley,” “disgrace,” “insufficiency,” “theft,” “transformation,” “without corners,” “late completion,” “rare sound,” and “formless” all convey the same idea as the earlier phrase “one skilled at walking leaves no tracks”: one skilled at following the Dao leaves no trace to follow. The same is true of maintaining humility.

The Dao (the Way) is deeply hidden and does not reveal itself; it has no fixed name. Only the Dao excels at giving and helps all things fulfill themselves. The Dao gives rise to “one,” “one” gives rise to “two,” “two” gives rise to “three,” and “three” in turn brings forth the myriad things. All things bear Yin on their backs and embrace Yang, while allowing the two vital energies to mingle and form harmony.

People dislike being called “orphan,” “widow,” or “one who lacks grain,” yet lords and princes use these names for themselves. This shows that sometimes a thing gains by being diminished, while increasing it may bring harm. What others teach the world, I too teach with these principles: those who act with force and tyranny do not meet a good end. I take this as the foundation of my teaching.

The softest thing in the world can pass through what is hardest. The formless can enter where there is no gap. From this I understand the benefit of Wuwei (non-action). Teaching without words and bringing benefit through non-action—few in the world can achieve this.

Ah, Laozi truly was a sage! His explanation of the Dao had reached the utmost depth. He said, “The Dao is hidden and nameless,” and that is exactly right. The Dao is the primordial Qi that existed before Heaven and Earth. People cannot see it, yet they cannot do without it. The scripture says that the Dao brings all things to completion as though lending without seeking repayment; this is an apt description. When all things follow the Dao’s patterns, they benefit from it. They depend on the Dao to come into being, as though it had given them its support.

The scripture also says that the Dao’s principles are profound and subtle. The Dao is the primordial Qi that existed before Heaven and Earth. Pure Qi rose to become Heaven, while turbid Qi sank to become Earth: this is “the One gives birth to Two.” Heaven and Earth are called the “Two Forms.” Add to them the Qi that existed before Heaven and Earth, and together they make Three. Once Heaven and Earth were established, the “Four Images,” such as the sun, moon, and stars, appeared. Wind, rain, frost, and dew followed; the seasons fell into order, and all things grew.

All things carry Yin and embrace Yang. When something reaches its height, it returns to its source; this aspect belongs to Yin. After returning to its source, it appears again; this is what it means to “embrace Yang.” Yang is firm and strong, but when Yin Qi runs through it, Yin and Yang can be brought into harmony. This is the principle by which the One gives birth to Two, Two gives birth to Three, and Three gives rise to all things. Yin moves toward Yang and often brings things to completion through humility and yielding. A noble person who studies the Dao should do the same.

The rulers of ancient times called themselves “the lonely,” “the bereft,” and “the unworthy.” These words all suggest that they lacked something, yet rulers used them to refer to themselves as a sign of humility. The scripture also uses the rise and decline of things to explain decrease and increase, and holds this to be the constant Dao.

The character “teach” appears three times in the text: the first two occurrences concern things that can be taught, while the last refers to those who “do not meet their end.” The meaning here is that people who do not accept instruction will meet such a fate. Laozi says, “What do I teach?” The character “father” in this passage refers to the source of principle, not to a literal father. The meaning is to guide and transform people through principle.

“The softest thing under Heaven gallops through the hardest; what has no form enters where there is no gap.” This means that the softest things in the world can pass through the hardest, and that what is formless and shapeless can enter places with no openings. From this we can see that Wuwei (non-action) can also bring benefit. “What has no form” refers to the Dao’s substance, which is supremely gentle. “The hardest, where there is no gap” may refer to hard, dense things such as metal and stone, yet Yin and Yang Qi can pass through them. This shows that the Dao acts gently and without form, leaving no obvious trace.

What Laozi teaches is “teaching without words.” Principle can transform all things without relying on speech. Is this teaching, or is it speaking? This is precisely the benefit of Wuwei. Wuwei does not mean doing nothing; it means following the movement of the Great Dao. A noble person, too, should follow the Dao at all times when settling themselves and handling affairs. Even without speaking, the principles of a matter are already in place. Once action begins, it can accord with the right moment, just as the seasons change and things respond naturally when their time comes.

Unless they are great people or noble persons, people cannot be taught this principle simply by hearing more words. That is why so few can understand it.

Chapter 35 says: Which matters more, reputation or life? Which is more precious, life or wealth? Which is more troubling, gain or loss? Excessive attachment is bound to exact a great cost, and hoarding too much is bound to bring heavy losses. Those who know contentment will not be disgraced; those who know where to stop will not fall into danger. In this way, they can endure.

Alas, these principles are profound and difficult to understand. Few people can grasp them.

Zhu Yuanzhang says: The principles are indeed profound. The ignorant may suppose that Laozi did not value the noble rank bestowed by Heaven. This is not so. Laozi was warning the greedy. He uses the word “excessive” in “excessive attachment” to connect with what came before, then uses the two words “know” in “know contentment” and “know where to stop” to bring the chapter to a close. Finally, he points out that understanding restraint is what allows one to endure.

The offices of the state each have their rank. Below the king, the Grand Steward (a high official in charge of the ministers and state affairs) holds a prominent position. Without a mandate from Heaven, how could someone abandon their own duties and covet the throne? If the Six Ministers (senior officials who assist the ruler and oversee different areas of government) have not been appointed by the ruler, how could they scheme through slander to seize the office of chief minister? Other offices, too, must be taken up in their proper order.

The scripture asks which matters more among reputation, life, wealth, and gain or loss in order to show that a noble person should draw ever closer to the Dao and seek to accord with it. The problem with petty people is that they do not devote themselves to learning the Dao; instead, they covet a reputation that does not accord with reason and hoard too much wealth. A reputation gained improperly is easily taken away. Those who hoard wealth inevitably become dependent on it and cling to it, so when they lose it, their losses are also severe. A noble person holds to the rank and position due by destiny and accumulates wealth gained within proper bounds. This is knowing contentment and avoiding disgrace, knowing where to stop and avoiding danger—and thus being able to endure.

Chapter 36 says: What is most complete seems to have something missing, yet its use never fades. What is most full seems empty, yet its use has no end. The most upright person seems bent; the most skillful person seems clumsy; the best speaker seems inarticulate. Movement can overcome cold, and stillness can overcome heat. Serenity and Wuwei (non-action) are the right way under Heaven.

Guarding the Dao is like protecting a precious vessel. Imagine that you own a precious jade cup and are always afraid it might be lost or damaged. By taking care of it with caution, you keep it from being ruined or broken.

“Great fullness” means that even when there is plenty, one uses it with restraint, as though there were not enough, rather than consuming it carelessly. In this way, its usefulness is never exhausted.

The qualities named in the text—straight yet yielding, skillful yet plain, eloquent yet reserved—all express humility and self-restraint. The author uses “straight” as an example: even someone who is honest and upright by nature should regularly examine their words, conduct, and deeds to see whether they fall short of the standards of a benevolent and principled person. The same applies to the other qualities. A person of noble character should hold to the Dao in this way, firmly and without wavering.

“Restlessness” is a state of agitation and carries a sense of heat, so movement can overcome cold. “Stillness” is a state of inactivity and carries a sense of coolness, so stillness can overcome heat. This is a metaphor: when holding to and practicing the Dao, a person of noble character should be cautious and decisive, neither rash nor hesitant.

“Clarity and stillness are the proper way to govern the world” means that clarity, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action) are the right path to governing. Once a ruler has brought stability to the world, they should hold fast to established principles and rules rather than acting rashly. Changing the ways of governance handed down by earlier rulers on a whim will bring disorder; if they refrain from needless changes, the world can remain at peace.

Chapter Thirty-Seven says: When the world is guided by the Dao, warhorses are retired to pull carts and carry manure. When the world has lost the Dao, warhorses breed in the outskirts, and war is about to begin. No fault is greater than giving free rein to desire; no calamity is greater than coveting what one might gain; no disaster is greater than not knowing when one has enough. Those who understand contentment are the ones who can always feel satisfied.

When wise rulers and worthy ministers hold office, they can establish laws and principles and restore order. Distant peoples such as the Yi, Man, and Mo come to submit, and there is no warfare under Heaven. This is called “having the Dao.” Horses accustomed to battle are harnessed to carts and used to carry manure; strong soldiers lay down their weapons and take up farming tools. This is called “making the warhorses withdraw and the manure carts go forth.”

If a ruler does not uphold the right Dao but instead follows a crooked path, even if horses are originally pastured and bred, they will not give birth where horses are bred. They will give birth on battlefields or in the outskirts of enemy lands. This is what is meant by “warhorses giving birth in the suburbs.” Could such a thing happen? Yes. How does it happen? The ruler delights in a kind of courage that departs from benevolence and righteousness, esteems brute force, and covets others’ treasures without justification. Then the warhorses appear in the suburbs. At that point, when guilt is grave and calamity deep, how could these things be avoided? It all happens because the ruler has lost the principles for keeping to the Dao and does not take benevolence as his foundation. It begins with not knowing when enough is enough. If the ruler knows contentment, the realm and the state will have all they need. Why seek anything from outside?

When wise rulers and worthy ministers govern by keeping to the Dao, they can bring peace to the realm. Delight in showing off one’s strength and coveting the possessions of others invite war. If a ruler knows contentment, the state can be secure and at ease, with no need to plunder from outside.

Without leaving the household, one can understand the world; without looking out through the window, one can understand the Way of Heaven. The farther one travels, the less one comes to know. Therefore, the sage need not travel in person to reach his destination, need not see things with his own eyes to understand them, and need not act deliberately to accomplish things.

One can understand the world without leaving home because the sage considers matters thoroughly and, while at rest, does not forget the dangers that may arise. One can understand the Way of Heaven without looking out through a window because the sage apprehends it inwardly and has no need to look out. The farther one travels, the less one knows because an unsettled mind only disrupts what one sees and hears.

To say that the sage can arrive without traveling, discern things without seeing them in person, and accomplish things without deliberate action means that the sage considers matters carefully and extends his kindness to all things. Even without seeing particular things with his own eyes, he understands their names and qualities, and so is wise. Things can be accomplished because his kindness has already reached them, allowing all things to change naturally. The Book of Documents says, “When the ruler is wise, his assisting ministers can fulfill their duties.” Is this not how the sage’s mind puts the Great Way to use?

Learning adds to one’s experience and knowledge; cultivating the Dao (the Way) means continually reducing selfish desires and attachments. Reduce them again and again, until reaching the state of Wuwei (non-action). Though one does not act willfully or recklessly, nothing remains undone. Those who govern the world should refrain from rash action as a matter of course. Once affairs of state become tangled and every matter prompts intervention, they are no longer capable of governing the world well.

The sage sets out to learn the Dao, and the Dao accumulates day by day. As the Dao grows ever more abundant, the sage prepares to put its principles into practice, yet worries that its foundations are not secure. So the sage labors day and night, turning matters over with painstaking care, until spirit and strength are exhausted. This is the process of continual reduction. When the Dao is put into practice throughout the world, benefiting all things, the people are at peace and goods are plentiful; the world is then settled. The sage therefore does not act willfully, yet enables everything to find its proper place. Is this not a matter of labor first and ease afterward?

In the past, sages who governed the world made it their aim to follow the laws of former kings as their standard, rather than change them at will. They relied neither on wealth nor on military force. This does not mean that sages seized another’s realm through violence. It means that a ruler who can bring stability to himself and order to the world may be called skilled at governing the world. This is what it means to refrain from willful action as a matter of course.

If one cannot bring stability to the world, but recklessly launches all manner of undertakings, exhausting the people and draining their resources, while thieves rise up and strongmen emerge, can one then raise an army to quell the disorder? It may not work. This is why tangled affairs of state and intervention in every matter make one unfit to govern the world.

The sage has no fixed, private opinions, but makes the people’s wishes their own. The sage treats good people with kindness, and treats those who are not good with kindness as well; in this way, people can be brought back to goodness. The sage deals honestly with those who keep their word, and remains honest even with those who do not; in this way, people can be brought to keep their word.

Dwelling among the people of the world, the sage is humble and restrained, helping their hearts return to simplicity. The people all listen and watch intently, and the sage treats them like children, helping them preserve their innocence.

The Book of Documents says, “Spirits do not enjoy sacrificial offerings at will. Only when the offerings are made with sincerity do they descend to partake.” This is well said. Who would think that Laozi’s teachings are at odds with it? Here, the text says that when people constantly do good and uphold De, the heavenly spirits continually protect them. As soon as an unkind intention begins to arise, that protection ceases.

When sages govern the world, they teach the people in accordance with this principle. Is this not following the way of Heaven? This is precisely what is meant by “The sage has no fixed personal intentions; he takes the people’s intentions as his own.”

Confucius said, “It is better to draw close to the good among your fellow villagers and to shun those who are not good.” There is merit in this saying too. But Laozi seems to say the opposite: treat both the good and the not good with kindness; treat both the trustworthy and the untrustworthy with trust. Which view, then, is right and which is wrong? Ah, Laozi’s writing is indeed remarkable.

“I treat the good with kindness”—this praises the good. “I also treat those who are not good with kindness”—this is meant to guide and caution them. The same applies to treating both the trustworthy and the untrustworthy with trust. In this way, people can ultimately be led toward goodness and trustworthiness. Those who do not understand Laozi’s intent may think he truly makes no distinction between good and bad, trustworthy and untrustworthy, or is even deliberately saying the opposite.

Some also hold that when a ruler governs the world, if his resolve is unsteady and his thoughts confused, he will act recklessly, and the people will follow his example until everyone behaves the same way. In the phrase “directing the ears and eyes,” “directing” means focusing the mind on something: listening to beautiful or foul sounds, and observing the causes of good and evil. The sage observes these things but does not want either himself or the people to become absorbed in them. So he strives to follow the Dao, keeping his mind often like that of a child who knows nothing of worldly affairs, and holding to Wuwei. In this way, the world can be brought to peace.

This concludes Chapter Forty-One.

People are born into the world and eventually return to death. Of those who belong to the category of the living, three in ten; of those who belong to the category of the dead, three in ten; … (The text that follows repeats the preceding passage and continues with its discussion of following the Dao and holding to Wuwei in order to bring peace to the world.)

This concludes Chapter Forty-One.

The great Dao of Heaven and Earth gives life and sustenance to humanity, which may broadly be divided into groups of ten. Laozi says that three in ten belong to the kind who preserve their lives, and three in ten to the kind who head toward death. Another three in ten are alive to begin with, yet through their own conduct they take the road to death. Here, “three in ten” means three-tenths.

Why do people who are alive head toward death? Because they pursue the preservation and enjoyment of life too intensely, crave too much, and act against reason, thereby bringing harm upon themselves. Indulgence in wine, sex, wealth, and anger; taking medicine recklessly when not ill; refusing medical care when ill; excess in food and clothing; unrestrained desires; fabricating heretical doctrines; committing wicked and unlawful acts; recklessly risking one’s life; and failing to show reverence for spirits, filial respect for parents, or affection for siblings—all these may bring calamity upon a person. Some might say that people can reach a good end despite doing things other than committing wicked acts, taking reckless risks, showing disrespect for spirits, or neglecting filial and fraternal duties. The commentator argues that because people do not understand the principles of the great Dao, they are enticed into harm by desires and external things, and often die violent deaths as a result. This is what it means to say that conduct leads people onto the road to death.

The text also says that those skilled in caring for life, when traveling on land, do not avoid rhinoceroses or tigers, and when entering battle formations, do not avoid weapons. The rhinoceros has no place to use its horn, the tiger no place to use its claws, and blades cannot injure such a person. The commentator explains that this does not mean people should deliberately place themselves among wild beasts and weapons. Rather, it means that a noble person acts with integrity and in accord with the principles of Heaven, harbors no wicked schemes, and does nothing that would bring guilt and calamity upon them. They therefore do not lead themselves into danger.

The Dao of Heaven calls for retribution. If petty people devote themselves to wicked acts and repeatedly bring others to the brink of death, in the end they will suffer the consequences themselves: even if they try to avoid rhinoceroses and tigers, they may instead die at the jaws of wild beasts; even if they keep away from weapons, they may lose their lives through arms and armor. Such is the consequence of taking the road to death.

The Dao enables the myriad things to come into being, while De nurtures them. Each thing takes on its own particular form and develops toward maturity in accordance with its natural tendencies. Thus, none fails to honor the Dao and treasure De. The Dao is honored and De cherished not because anyone commands the myriad things to do so, but because this is their natural way.

The Dao therefore brings the myriad things into being, sustains them, helps them grow and develop, gives them form and brings them to maturity, while also nurturing and protecting them. It creates them without claiming ownership, acts without taking credit, and lets them grow without ruling over them. This is called profound and subtle De.

The four words “give life, nurture, form, and bring to completion” mean that those able to govern the world can generally preserve these four aspects. This is to follow and uphold the patterns by which Heaven and Earth bring things into being and set them in motion. The text goes on to say that the Dao brings the myriad things into being, sustains them, helps them grow and develop, gives them form and brings them to maturity, while also nurturing and protecting them. It creates them without claiming ownership, acts without taking credit, and lets them grow without ruling over them. This is called “Mysterious De,” the profound and subtle De.

The growth, nurturing, formation, and fulfillment of all things are four processes that those capable of governing the world can generally preserve and guide well. This is what it means to skillfully follow the movement of Qianyuan, Heaven’s power of generation and transformation. What, specifically, are these four processes mentioned above? They are simply bringing all things into being; once they have come into being, nurturing them—this is called “storing up”; after nurturing them, distinguishing their kinds so that each can grow according to its nature and reveal its own form; and, where a form is incomplete, supplementing it in keeping with its conditions until it is whole. Having received these gifts, all things rejoice. When all things are at peace with the allotment they have received from Heaven, the movement of Qianyuan can be followed, and the country will prosper for a long time. Is this not a precious virtue?

From the standpoint of Dao and De, Dao is originally formless, yet it can bring forth things with form. A ruler of the world should govern like one who lets his robes hang and folds his hands: issuing commands without meddling needlessly, allowing the two forces of Yin-Yang to circulate without cease. Then the world will be at peace. This is called following the constant principle of nature.

The scripture also says: “Give life to them, store them up, make them grow, nurture them, bring them to completion, bring them to maturity, nourish them, and shelter them.” This describes the constant patterns of Heaven and Earth, as well as the alternation of the four seasons and the interaction of Yin-Yang. More specifically, spring brings forth the sprouting of all things, summer makes them grow, autumn brings the harvest, and winter stores them away. A ruler should allow the people to enjoy their lives and possess what is properly theirs, and should ensure that the elderly receive care and respect. Rather than managing everything personally, the ruler should establish offices to govern. This is Xuande, the profound and hidden De.

The above is Chapter 43 of the Dao De Jing.

All things under Heaven have an origin, which may be called the mother of the world. Grasp this mother, and you can understand the things born from it. Having understood them, hold fast to their common root, and you will remain free from danger throughout your life. Block the openings of the senses and close the gates of desire, and you will not be worn out over the course of your life. Open the senses and pursue affairs, and nothing can save you throughout your life. To perceive what is subtle is called clarity; to hold fast to weakness is called strength. Use your own light, then return to inner discernment. In this way, you will not bring calamity upon yourself. This is called inheriting the constant Dao.

“Origin” means root or beginning; “mother” means the primal source that gives rise to all things. Why does the scripture say, “The world has an origin” and “take it as the mother of the world”? The workings of Dao are vast and profound: Dao is both the beginning of all things and their mother. This root is originally empty, still, and formless, and is therefore also called “inheriting the constant”—following the enduring Dao.

“Beginning” means the root and origin; “mother” means the ancestral source that gives life to all things. The scripture speaks of the “beginning of all under Heaven” and the “mother of all under Heaven” because the Great Dao is both the source of all things and the basis from which they arise. The Great Dao seems empty and unreal, yet it truly brings all things into being.

If people can know the Great Dao and, like the Dao, enable life to continue without end, they should constantly abide by it. In human affairs, the Dao is embodied in the Five Virtues: benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness. When a ruler follows and maintains them, the realm can be at peace. When ministers uphold them, they can become worthy ministers and their families can prosper. When ordinary people uphold them, neighbors live in harmony, relatives get along, households flourish without breaking the law, and they earn the praise of their community. If rulers, ministers, and ordinary people all steadfastly hold to the Dao, they can remain free from danger throughout their lives.

When everyone abides by the Dao, refrains from acting rashly, keeps the mind quiet, and does not rush to speak or act, this is “closing the openings and shutting the gates”—restraining the senses, speech, and conduct. Then they can handle affairs with due measure and never be in want throughout their lives. “Not being in want, not acting” means not moving rashly because of some lack. “Opening the openings and pursuing affairs” means speaking out and taking action to deal with matters. By holding firmly to the Dao and acting appropriately, one allows all things to grow according to their nature. Misfortune will not befall, and there will be no need for remedy: this is the meaning of “no remedy throughout life.”

“To see the subtle is clarity; to keep to the yielding is strength” means that only those who can perceive what is minute are truly clear-sighted, and only those who can remain yielding and humble are truly strong. A person may already see what lies before them yet still worry that their understanding is too limited. They may also think that the principles they uphold are weak, while knowing that, in the long run, the yielding can overcome the strong. By conducting oneself humbly, one can instead attain a high position. This is what “to see the subtle is clarity; to keep to the yielding is strength” means. Such a person may seem outwardly unimpressive, yet in practice they can be effective; their radiance thus becomes evident and can also return to them. Acting humbly and using one’s influence appropriately brings no disaster that harms the body. In this way, one can take up and follow the constant, unchanging law of the Great Dao. This is called “inheriting the constant”—carrying on and following the eternal Dao.

The above is Chapter Forty-Four.

If I have even a slight understanding of the Great Dao, the fundamental principle underlying all things in the universe, then what I fear most in putting it into practice is straying from the right path. The Dao is broad and level, yet people prefer to take narrow paths.

Some people keep the court spotless while letting the fields lie barren and the storehouses stand empty. They wear splendid clothes and carry sharp swords at their waists; they feast lavishly and have wealth to spare. To flaunt riches and indulge in luxury is like a bandit strutting with pride. How could that accord with the Dao?

Laozi says that even if people like me grasp only the slightest bit of the Dao’s true state, we will still act with caution, worrying that our understanding is not pure enough and that we may therefore stray from the Dao. The road is naturally broad and level, with no brambles beside it, yet people do not follow the Great Dao and insist on taking narrow paths. Brambles grow thick on either side of these paths, and tigers and wolves lie in wait, yet people are unafraid and still risk the journey. If they pass through safely now and then, it is only by luck. This is what is meant by: “The Great Dao is broad and level, yet people prefer narrow paths.”

Some people who fall short of the way of the noble do not know to value what is fundamental. They care only to sweep the court until dust fills the air, while all the crops in the fields go to waste. Others have no grain in their storehouses, yet wear embroidered silks. Still others wield blades, slaughter lambs to satisfy their appetites, and accumulate great stores of wealth. These comparisons all say the same thing: people fail to follow the Dao and instead chase after what makes no sense. This is truly regrettable.

Taking narrow paths, sweeping the court, leaving the fields barren and the storehouses empty, wearing fine clothes, carrying sharp swords, feasting greedily, having wealth to spare, and flaunting it: all of these are contrary to the Dao.

This is Chapter Forty-Five.

What is skillfully established cannot be shaken; what is skillfully held cannot easily be lost. In this way, the ancestral rites carried out by descendants will continue from generation to generation.

Cultivate the Dao within yourself, and your De will become genuine. Cultivate it in your family, and your De will abound. Cultivate it in your village, and your De will spread far and wide. Cultivate it in your state, and your De will grow rich. Cultivate it throughout the world, and your De will be universally put into practice.

Therefore, observe yourself through yourself, one family through another, one village through another, one state through another, and then the world through the world. How do I know that the world is like this? I know it through this principle.

This passage states its principle plainly. “Skillfully established” means something as firmly rooted as an upright object that even a strong person cannot pull out. Here, it is a metaphor for governing the world through De. “Skillfully held” means keeping something in one’s heart, holding fast to it day and night and never departing from it throughout one’s life. Here, it is a metaphor for embracing the Great Dao. If these two things are held firmly, the tradition of making offerings to Heaven, Earth, and the ancestors can continue, and the line of descendants will endure for a hundred generations.

Self-cultivation, ordering the family, governing the village, governing the state, and governing the world: if all five levels are brought into order, the world can be at peace, and the ruler can align with Qianyuan, the fundamental creative force of the Dao of Heaven. The scripture also speaks of “five observations”: observing, in turn, oneself, the family, the village, the state, and the world. Laozi’s teaching may seem simple, but its meaning is profound. This step-by-step observation is meant to verify the principle and ensure that rulers who govern the world put the Dao into practice. The closing question, “How do I know that the world is like this? I know it through this,” means that the Dao can indeed be put into practice, and the world can indeed be governed. The five forms of cultivation described earlier all accord with the Dao: cultivate each sphere, and the corresponding De will be realized. The five observations remind those who govern the world not to regard only themselves as themselves, or only their state as their state, but to understand, moving from near to far, the principles they share.